


Asphyxiation

by tco



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholism, Bottom Dean, Community: deancasbigbang, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, Depression, Dubious Consent, Godstiel: Cas as God, Grief, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Illness, Mutual Pining, PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, Violence, mcd as it transpired in canon, season 7, usage of original lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 72,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is this human little proverb that says “you are what you eat”. Castiel was too desperate to pay attention to something this unimportant. He was at war. And Dean had to be saved. Castiel swallowed more from Purgatory than he thought he would. And Dean didn’t like being saved, nor did he like his new God.<br/>On the other hand, the Leviathans liked their suit very much so they took their time to prepare it for their reigns and the head of their host seemed to be the perfect place to start. They too, did not think about that proverb when they should have. Everything that lays a hand on Dean is lost, in the end.<br/>And Dean? He doesn’t cope with his friend’s death or with the new sea-monster kids in town thing very well. He doesn’t cope at all, though he tries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks go to humanlovesfreckles for dealing with this story, and all of my whining and stupid questions that revolved around it. Words can't possibly convey how damn grateful I am for your help and moral support.

 

 

**lovely art for the story has been created by[labluekatt1721](http://labluekatt1721.livejournal.com/6210.html)**. Please, pay her a visit as well. 

**I “Love is vengeance that’s never free”**

                                                                    

****

****

**_I_ ** _t all goes down from here:_

 **_W_ ** _elcoming arms spread widely open,_

 **_A_ ** _rush of fresh air expected to entwine you._

 **_I_ ** _nept suddenly, tensed mind self-deceived, hurriedly shut down._

 **_T_ ** _o finally inhale it, take it in, but you should’ve known_ _it’s_ _gangrene._

_*_

Castiel’s worries at this point are stacked one upon another, patched together into one entity by the feeling of guilt, which no matter how much he justifies himself – can not really leave him be. He had, however, faced the moment of having to play va bank.

He either regains everything that he willingly burnt or he loses it and himself as well.

By everything Castiel mostly means Dean. Well, he does mean Raphael, means the Apocalypse back on track problem, of course means Sam and his damaged mind,  means also Crowley, but all of this, Castiel ponders, brings him back to Dean once more. Everything always did, didn’t it?

This is the final moment and the Angel is alone in it. The man, because of whom he is here now, had cut him off completely, the trust that they shared now nothing more but a memory of safety. Castiel is hurt and disappointed but he cannot put all of the blame on Dean. Dean is only human. And he doesn’t always understand everything, though he tries.

So Castiel nearly prays to the tiles on the poorly blue-lit walls of one of Crowley’s torture rooms that through this he would win Dean back. If there is no God, he prays to the tiles, to the cold table, to the jar of blood, to chance. There is no God for him and he doesn’t know where to pour his trust and his heart anymore. But neither the walls, nor the jar answer to console him. So he holds on tightly to the faith that lies within him. The one that tells him that this is the right choice, the only choice and that on this war, to rescue Dean, he would always end up here.

Because he’s doing the right thing and finally he shall be understood and forgiven and so shall he understand and forgive them as well. These sacrifices will be the last ones to ever make. There will be a brand new start, this time for good. Castiel draws the symbols with the blood that he took with himself and thinks of the future becoming a tabula rasa. The liquid is thick, dark and it reeks in a way that could unsettle his vessel.

He steadies himself, suddenly feels so small in the silence and this space, so he focuses on Dean’s nearby presence within the facility. He pretends that he is not alone. From the distance, he can sense the man’s pain as Crowley and Raphael throw him around like a doll. Dean shouldn’t have come here, Castiel decides. There is still something deep inside his grace that warns him that he shouldn’t have come here, either. It gets dismissed once and for all. There is no time for doubt. Castiel speaks the words quietly but clearly nonetheless.

*

 

The souls come like a blizzard. It is all tensed light, something far greater than his own form and he hardly contains them, but they still keep coming. Every pore of his vessel fails to scream at the injustice and malevolence it is being served as his cells, his very grace chokes on the energy. It floods him like a raging river, the souls are anxious, violently awakened, terrified with the transgression, just as scared the infants are of leaving the mother’s calm womb. Castiel is on his knees, trying to breathe as the power flows wildly between his muscles and around his veins, thrashing around like a stampede. Castiel thinks that it is over, but it’s not. He only sees them for a glimpse and he registers himself feeling fear of a level he does not recall experiencing ever since Lucifer’s fall, perhaps even bigger, more breath-taking and paralyzing. Creatures of which even God was afraid, the ones that were born out of pain and formed without purpose, the ones that were cast away to a place of which no one in the Host, not even the Holy Son, were told. Castiel knows where they were sleeping. Were.

They rush towards his mouth but once they get there, leviathan do take their time, as if they were sightseeing the Angel’s insides. He can taste them as they writhe lazily inside. They are something bitter and they stench of decay, of old age. Thicker than blood, they leave the aftertaste and smell of tar. As they slide slowly down his throat and reach curiously and diligently where they may, Castiel is already crying. He knows he had just lost his chance, his green-eyed everything and himself. He’s expecting death but it does not come. The leviathan settle down among the souls as if they were blankets. The immediate sense of dread becomes muffled by the feeling of invincibility that the pure energy delivers him. The Serpents do nothing at all. They are calm, they just linger, humming inside of his body, echoing and filling Castiel with almost soothing, dulling voices. They cradle his fear and put it to sleep. The Angel is no longer afraid. He is the Love, the Wisdom, the Justice and the Might. He is God. His face relieves itself into a content, drugged-like peaceful smile. He controls this, he controls all.

 _Yes, you do_ – the leviathan purr and all of his entire being echoes with those words.

Castiel is victorious.  Everything is his. Warmth and fondness take over him. It is time to attend his everything. And by everything, Castiel means mostly Dean.

The one who should be grateful, because just as he promised, he was right all along, his were the correct choices,  those choices were founded by his undying love, which, Castiel allows himself to presume, should be easily reciprocated because he had saved his righteous man once again and once and for all. As for the wounds that had torn them apart if not almost asunder, Castiel will heal them, he will fix them and Dean will be grateful. Because Castiel is grateful. Grateful for his choices and for this exact path. He is grateful for everything. And by everything, he mostly means Dean. So, yes, Castiel always was, and still is grateful for Dean. But more importantly, Castiel reminds himself, Castiel is God.

And was it not written that God shall destroy his enemies and reward those of faithful hearts?

So he goes off, intending to do exactly that. He goes off to attend everything.

And when thinking of everything, Castiel smiles high on euphoria and on power, drunk with passion and his mission.

* 

Castiel is a one smug peacock of a God. Where there is Dean – there is showing off. It has always been this way. But this time, Castiel goes far beyond his usual habit. In any other circumstances he would shun himself for the extent of his behavior. He doesn’t. He does quite the opposite, he is warming himself with his own glory and takes it in with the nonchalance of a cat laying on a windowsill to bathe in the sunrays. He can do so, after all. God simply can’t be reckless. Whatever God does is righteous.

Castiel puts his jar down with an audible click and he knows that Dean is making an effort to stand up upon hearing the surreal in this situation calmness of his voice. Castiel, undisturbed and unthreatened by Raphael’s and the Demon’s presence, is watching the man collecting himself, his blue eyes attentive and analytic. Their gazes meet in this eerie silence and Castiel straightens his vessel up, tightens every muscle and inhales all the air he can have even though he needs none. He ruffles up his feathers like a majestic and dangerous bird, he finds himself swelling up and his chest filling with a new sensation, one that still has yet to decide whether it is like ice or like fire. It floats in between his lungs and his heart just like the unspoken question lingering in his eyes and nearly dripping off his lips. Dean is watching him back with matching intensity, and Castiel knows he’s trying to study his face, but no words ever fall because Dean fails to find an answer within the boundaries of the vessel’s physiognomy. Yet, the urgency of Dean’s look wields certain unsettling implication that whatever Dean is experiencing right now is not anywhere near relief. Castiel acknowledges it and somehow dismisses it at the same time, willing to explore the issue further but not just now, willing to prove his own suspicions wrong. He nods lightly at Dean and Bobby and there is something uncanny in that subtle movement, he knows that it is a declaration, and even though he is God, he does not know of what that declaration is, is it of love, of peace or of war? The purring from his inside and the hum of flowing souls distort his own thoughts, he blinks just once and still not feeling quite clear on the stance that he just made, decides to shift his attention onto what without a doubt is his foe. The corners of Castiel’s lips barely make it any way upwards but his eyes are laughing at the other two victoriously, giving out a patronizing tone to the given promise of demise. He almost pities them.

“I see,” the King of the Crossroads begins, having that silent message understood just fine. “And we’ve been working with dog blood. Naturally,” Crowley states, already aware of his defeat and the fact that he’s not even a player in this game anymore. He’s buying himself some time and Castiel lets him, at that moment far more concerned with turning his gaze back at Dean, offering the man reassurance with a noticeable undertone of _I told you so_ built within it. Dean, however, still understands nothing, the features of his face gradually spread wider and wider with terror.

“Enough of these games, Castiel!” Raphael cuts in, just as oblivious as Dean if not more. “Give us the blood”.

 When he attempts to carry out a threat, Dean already looks like he is about to cry. Dean does not know that the threats are empty.  Castiel reads into him and sees that the man is afraid  his friend will die any second now, that his bold mouth is going to bring death upon himself, just like the time when he attempted to offend Michael with the most beautiful insult of his own making. Castiel already calculates whether he should already tell Dean the truth himself in order to soothe him, or if it is not the right time yet, but before he makes a decision on the subject, Crowley finds himself valuable and kind enough to point out the obvious truth which the blinded by pride Archangel fails to see.

“You…” he begins, raising his finger in a explanatory, yet mocking way, still probably astounded with how much of a fool Raphael is and Castiel can’t help but agree with him on this one. “Game is over. His jar is empty”.

A reaction to this enlightenment is beginning to make its way through Dean’s face and this is where Castiel’s still lingering eyes retreat because for a moment he caught a glimpse of Dean’s own and the first thing he had seen there was pain. He feels bitterness and coldness falling down upon him like the first note of a woeful song of disappointment but before he can make the step to open himself up to it, Crowley proves himself worthy again and offers a needed distraction.

“So, Castiel. How did your ritual go?” Castiel turns his eyes on the Demon, they’re filled with relief, but just as well they are giving out a fair warning. “Better than ours, I bet?”

Castiel wishes not to talk, he finds his mouth being sealed with yet unsorted annoyance, so what he does is letting his Godhood speak in his behalf. He focuses himself, closes his eyes, unfolds his Grace and becomes the light itself. His right wing, something magnificent and unsettlingly enormous, a thing more powerful and fearsome than anything Raphael or Crowley have ever seen, spreads above Dean and Bobby’s unaware, hidden heads like a fiery shield. Left wing unfolds behind Castiel as well, looming upon the room like an omen of misfortune, like a death sentence. It presents itself to them like a flag of the conquering army. The Demon and the Archangel know two things: they are dead and what kills them is not an Angel anymore.

Dean knows none of this as of yet, but the lack of information does not make him feel any safer, apparently, Castiel sadly notices. Dean can’t close his mouth still. And Castiel finds it surprisingly hard to stop looking at it. Deeply hidden serpents emerge once more, purring somewhat louder, hissing even, while moving inside him subtly, curling and uncurling themselves, content all out the sudden for what Castiel finds to be a no apparent reason. The sensation of satisfaction spreads around and reaches him as well, and soon he too is on the verge of purring. However pleasant it seems, it is confusing, so Castiel cuts them off deliberately, dulling them through the infinite power of the souls.

“You can’t imagine what it’s like…” he speaks for the first time in what he, being God, can hear that Dean considers ages. “They’re all inside me. Millions upon millions of souls.”

“Sounds sexy,” Crowley says, just as uninterested as Castiel is in the Demon’s answer. “Exit stage Crowley,” he informs just as he flees and Castiel allows the escape for the time being, busy mostly with Dean and his attempt to erase both Castiel’s words and the commentary for them from his consciousness, just before he can actually come up with an opinion on the matter and he does not want to have one, God forbid him that, he doesn’t.

But Castiel, also God, does not wish to forbid him that. He sees no need to forbid Dean anything as of now.

The only thing he needs to do now is to end this. End the dreadful road that finally has taken him here.

“What’s the matter, Raphael?” he asks, all of his rage contained in this innocent question. “Somebody clipped your wings?” The coldness of his voice makes something inside of Dean cringe – the man he had known is different. Castiel on the other hand thought that Dean would be different.

“Castiel, please.” And yet, when Raphael is begging for his worthless life, Castiel knows that Dean, instead of being peaceful and relieved, is worried, tensed, almost sorry for the celestial bastard that is about to meet his end. Castiel is displeased and he shall not be going through this for even a second longer than it is necessary, he doesn’t want the family talk and the pity poison Dean’s ears. Castiel’s patience with Raphael has worn off the day when the Archangel first threatened to put the Winchesters into danger. So yes, Castiel is not kind enough to explain anything to the cockroach beneath his foot and he ends it with a pause, with an alien, vile smirk, with a snap of his fingers. With a rain of blood and a stain next to the dog blood painted sigils.

Bobby and Dean take a step back. Castiel turns his head slowly to look at the righteous man with heavy lidded eyes and an unquestionable sense of finality. He registers his nostrils widening considerably and his lips wanting to shut themselves tight into a thin line. At the same time, he forbids them to do so. They end up subtly corresponding to something, the something being exactly an observation that Dean’s mouth is still gawking wide open. For a moment that seems to have no end, Castiel stares at that earnestly shocked face and lets his eyes linger on its remarkable features. The shock inside him is tangible and Castiel is convinced that if he touched that face, he could effortlessly read an entire epic through his vessel’s fingers, written with each single shiver of Dean’s muscles, with every line that forms around his face, with every movement of his eyes. But the story would be incomplete, Castiel muses, it would be lacking fundamental details without which it all is devoid of meaning. The void distorts the context, therefore Castiel considers it necessary to add an editor’s note, an exegesis.

Instead of walking straight towards the men, just as he begins to speak, he finds himself circling around them, his steps deliberately slow, long and firm. Like a freshly crowned emperor judging his newly acquired lands, like a predator stalking and  nonverbally daunting the prey. He is not sure why exactly does he act so, but his vessel behaves as if it had a mind, or to be more precise, an instinct of its own. He ignores it for the time being for he wants to focus on choosing the right words, and these, surprisingly, are not that easy to find. Castiel needs the words that will bring Dean back to him. He needs words that can make things right. Words wielding the power to create. Locution is one thing, merely a verbal construct. Illocution, Castiel calculates, is a matter of his wants, and those can be only fulfilled if the perlocution is done right. He somewhat wishes Dean could read out of him just as easily as he can reach his mind.

“So you see…” he begins, eyes hollow and distant, yet his mind fixed intently on Dean alone, even though Bobby is also in the room, even though he knows Sam is making his way down here with great difficulty and a matching determination. “I saved you,” he stops his victory march the moment he registers Dean making his first, unsure step in his direction. He does not however turn around to face him, as he probably is expected to.

“You sure did, Cas,” Dean finally manages to say and something inside Castiel jolts with electricity as he hears this intimate version of his name being once again worded. “Thank you,” Dean adds. For a moment Castiel is pleased. But it is not the only thing he needs to hear him say. He wants to hear that Dean’s sorry.

“You doubted me…” a broken smile forms on his secluded face as the words come out, “fought against me,” and he finally turns around to them, “but I was right all along.”

 Bobby is wearing a pained expression, as if he was listening to a mad man crying out his misery. Castiel feels almost offended. He is no mad man at all. He’s having none of this look, so he shifts his eyes to Dean.

“Okay, Cas, you were. We’re sorry,” he hears Dean saying meekly, testing the water. Castiel blinks, tilting his head slightly, but says nothing for he isn’t not yet convinced of sincerity of those words. “Let’s just defuse you, okay?” Dean offers and Castiel knows instantly that it isn’t the doubt in his intentions that really makes the man feel sorry. Dean is sorry everything ended up like this here and now. Sorry that Castiel stands in front of him, victorious, powerful and new. And he doesn’t quite understand why would that be regrettable.

“What do you mean?” he asks sadly, but calmly just as well.

“You’re full of nuke. It’s not safe,” it is hurtful and offending for him to hear that Dean might think he would have caused him any harm with the power that he had obtained in order to do good. He does not know what to say for a moment and as an after effect of the temporary speechlessness, his lips seal. Dean however, has mustered enough bravery to continue. “So before the eclipse ends, let’s get them souls back to where they belong.”

Dean is very wrong. But Castiel tries to understand. Dean is simply afraid of the change.

“Oh, no. They belong with me,” he assures.

“No, Cas,” Dean replies, stressed enough to the point where he actually stutters. “I-It’s scrambling your brain.”

Castiel begs to differ. If anything is messing with someone’s brain here, it is Dean’s human fear clouding his judgment. So he takes the time to explain, hoping that it will suffice.

“Oh, no. I’m not finished yet. Raphael had many followers and I must…” he pauses, searching once more for the right words, but all he hears echoing through his vessel’s skull is _must shed blood_. The noise startles him slightly, these aren’t his thoughts, this is not his goal. He assumes that perhaps it is just the adrenaline busting in, twisting his thoughts to something they clearly are not. “Punish them all severely,” he decides to say and dismisses the fact that the idea of severe punishment he intends to serve matches the dictionary definition of bloodshed perfectly.

That pause apparently made Dean feel even more uneasy, but somehow it raised his confidence as well, because Castiel sees him taking a few steps more, almost closing the distance between them, and hears him getting indulgent enough to say “Listen to me.” Castiel smiles bitterly at that. “Listen… I know that there is a lot of bad water under the bridge, but we were family once.”

This is not what Castiel had ever expected to hear in this moment. The four last words pierce him like a blade even though he is God and nothing should be able to bring him pain. What does he mean by were family once? Is this how Dean really feels right now? That it is a matter of the past? He had saved him more times than he is willing to count right now and for this he gets to face rejection? The pain blurs his mind and he falls gradually more and more deaf to whatever Dean is saying next.

“I’d have died for you. I almost did a few times,” and he fails to really hear this. “So if that means anything to you…” Dean stops, licking his mouth, gathering the courage to beg. “Please. I’ve lost Lisa, I’ve lost Ben and now I’ve lost Sam. Don’t make me lose you, too.”

But Castiel is nothing more but an aching wound cut open and burning. His ears and his mind are on fire, his heart compromised. Nothing is clear and the only thing he understood is that he’s merely the last position on that list, far behind a woman and a child. Foreign jealousy is leaking from somewhere within and it is oil for his already overwhelming fire.

“You don’t need this kind of juice anymore, Cas,” Dean says and Castiel solemnly wonders if there is anything that he needs anymore, if even godhood is not enough for Dean to value him as much as he wishes he was loved. “Get rid of it before it kills us all.” A direct order falls and Castiel feels further betrayed. All he’s been doing was taking orders from Dean, one after another. But when he asks for something, Dean apparently fails to hear. But Castiel cannot let go, so he tries once more, this time trying a different path. He does possibly the most human thing he’s ever done. He says things that are meant to hurt, he says something he would have never said because it still is not what he thinks of Dean. But he lets the gruesome words slip out of his lips so Dean would deny those accusations, he would tell him that it’s not true. He wants to hear that he is loved, that it is him that matters, that he is not Dean’s blunt little instrument.

“You’re just saying that because I won. Because you’re afraid. You’re not my family, Dean. I have no family.”

Dean looks as if he had just taken numerous blows on his chest and he breathes as if he’s hurting. But a verbal answer does not come because for some reason Sam Winchester and the hell inside his broken mind decide to interrupt this moment with a rude, but failed attempt at murder. Castiel isn’t more annoyed with it than a mother rolling her eyes at her unruly child’s poorly thought-out snarky comment. With an angel blade piercing through his chest, he’s still having his gaze fixed on Dean and the man’s reaction to his brother’s doing somehow is like sudden rain, slowly putting the fire out. He has gotten his answer. What Dean Winchester is really afraid of is losing him. Castiel takes the blade out with no effort and looks at it with certain fondness before putting it down. Even if the resemblance is minimal, it somehow reminds him of how he and Dean have first met. Partially because of the attempted assault itself, mostly because of Dean’s eyes. They were the same back then. Besides that, hardly anything is the same now.

“I’m glad you made it, Sam,” he offers nonchalantly. “But the angel blade won’t work.” Sam gawks at him dumbfounded, his mind shifting between the two urgent, and in Castiel’s opinion – very amusing problems: _why didn’t the angel blade work?_ And _why have I done this at all?_ Well, the first one Castiel is more than willing to explain, but as for the latter, he’s not so sure of that either. “Because I’m not an Angel anymore,” he plainly says. “I’m your new God,” with this he turns to Dean directly. “A better one,” he tells him, nodding and through this he makes a personal promise, a promise for Dean only. By “better” he means to offer a new paradise. A paradise that is meant for them to have. And there is just one thing Dean has to do to have it. Castiel admits that perhaps, all out the sudden he worded it too harshly, but at least he does hope it shall convey how important it is to him, how important everything is. And by everything Castiel means mostly Dean.

“So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your lord,” he says, quite convinced that it was all he was meant to say, but right away, startled, he hears his mouth adding, “or I shall destroy you.” He blames it on adrenaline, he blames it on meaning something else with it, but he does not make a correction, either. God doesn’t make mistakes. God cannot appear as weak, as uncertain. He pretends it did not happen. After all, he knows best he’s not here to destroy. Castiel is here to mend those who are hurt and to fix what has been broken.

Castiel is the good God.

Castiel doesn’t notice that he is alone with his opinion. Castiel doesn’t notice that his eye has twitched regardless of his will.


	2. II.

 

**“It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah”**

**_C_ ** _urious of Power,_

**_O_ ** _n your way to conquer all._

**_M_ ** _ourned by him who loved you most._

**_E_ ** _arnest you were to give a prize he did not take._

**_F_ ** _ixing things that were not broken._

**_O_ ** _ccupying your hands so they wouldn’t change their mind._

**_R_ ** _epeat your pleas once more before you go._

**_T_ ** _he righteous man won’t listen._

**_H_ ** _atred is always born out of pain._

**_A_ ** _sphyxiated with gangrene,_

**_N_ ** _o solace for you dear God._

**_D_ ** _reams torment you with falling, so you try to reach higher._

*

Castiel’s words are followed by silence and a fundamental lack of understanding that happened to be the fatal blow to his already heavily damaged patience. He looks around the cellar with cold eyes and a stern face. He stands there like an ancient monument, powerful, raw, with an impassive, calm pose which is not quite true. Before Bobby makes the first move to get down on his knees, before he beckons the rest to do the same, Castiel is already unnerved beyond belief, for he knows that despite his efforts, despite his helpful and merciful hand reaching out to them, everything went wrong. And by wrong Castiel mostly means Dean.

 

Dean Winchester, the one on whom his eyes are now firmly transfixed, his body tense and waiting. He is too busy observing, to notice how he stands there before him like a predator, everything in his features becoming subtly more and more animalistic the longer he’s watching. He nods directly at him, in a warning, as an order, as the last chance for salvation. He doesn’t know nor he does care. Dean stares back at him, vulnerable, small, terrified. Like a critter put into a corner by something incomparably more primal and vicious, unstoppable in its mute, yet blatant hunger. And Castiel cannot stand how accusatory the man’s body language appears to be, how it makes him feel like. Castiel is not a monster and he should not be treated as such. The muscles in his jaw tighten. Something inside him wants to break the peaceful façade, wants to violently force Dean into understanding, into obedience. The smell of fear pouring through his skin is unsettling to say the very least, and independently of Castiel’s will, his mouth begins to wonder where to bite to open Dean up, both metaphorically and literally. But this is not a thought of his, he notices. _You can do it, Castiel_ , he hears from within, the voices calm, reassuring, determined. And just like that, he knows where it came from. He is God and he is certainly not taking any advice from the serpents, especially if it’s this stupid. It’s disgusting, preposterous and it is not making any sense whatsoever. Everything is like this at the moment, actually. And by everything Castiel means both Dean and the leviathan. He’s had enough.

“Stop it,” he sharply orders the monsters, Dean and the other two’s futile and untrue attempts to please him. There is an unplanned hint of resignation in his supposed to be cold voice. “What’s the point if you don’t mean it?” he asks rhetorically, sounding defeated. “You fear me,” Castiel explains. “Not love,” he tells Dean, “not respect. Just fear.” He knows that it is not entirely true, but he needs to prove a point. He even dismisses the awareness from his mind for keeping it would only lead him further into confusion. It’s a fact that Dean’s dominating emotion is, as of now, fear. He can feel it, he can see it, he can smell it, taste it and touch it. It is palpable. Castiel could touch Dean’s eyelids and lips and they would tremble. His legs would shiver, his muscles would tense and in his chest his heart would beat fast enough to nearly kill him. Castiel is God and he knows. Yet, the vessel’s fingers tingle with the need of confirmation. It is instantly denied. This would only lead to a mind-blinding warmth and forgiveness that certainly Dean has not earned right now. Castiel tells himself to stop looking into Dean. Because when he does, he begins to see something more than fear. Something that distracts his rightful wrath. He sees an urgent need to fix things up, dictated by hope and love. But Castiel deliberately ignores it. If it was strong enough, Castiel muses with sadness, it would prevail over the fear and lack of faith. He dismisses it also because if he let it in, his compassion would blind his judgment, belittle his own pain, he would let himself suffer just to take the burden away from Dean, like he always did. And he certainly cannot let that happen. Because among all of these things that he can read from Dean in this moment, he fails to see respect in his heart. And it stings him and offends greatly. After all that he has done, after everything he sacrificed time and time and again, Dean still does not respect him as he should. And what kind of a God is one that is not respected? Nothing but a device. And Castiel is not a device, not anymore. Not ever again. And not even his speech gets treated seriously, because out of all the people, it is Sam Winchester that decides to bark in.

“Cas- ”

Sam Winchester, who at this very moment is the last being in whole creation that Castiel wants to think about, for somewhat conflicting reasons. Partially because of deeply hidden guilt that cannot, under any circumstances, be allowed to resurface. A part of Castiel does regret that destroying Sam was an unavoidable move. He is certain that if it was not necessary, if it had not happened, Dean would be incomparably easier to reason with. Everything wouldn’t be lost. But it is. Dean that loved him clearly and faithfully belongs to the past. Castiel loving Dean unconditionally, remaining blind to his faults and the pain that he causes him, also is a part of the past. And Castiel was willing to give Dean more than anyone in the universe could even fathom dreaming – he would give him a bond that is equal. But no. Dean wanted to be more than his God, apparently. He wanted to be always right, to always win, to have the upper hand, while constantly remaining deaf to the fact that he was wrong. But it is all, Castiel reminds himself just in case, a matter of the past. And so is Sam and his traitorous hand that decided to raise itself against him when he was still more than willing to give. As he begins to speak once more, Castiel does not even spare Sam a glance.

“Sam,” he articulates coldly, the word sharp like a blade, “you have nothing to say to me. You stabbed me in the back,” he finally turns around to face him, the obvious truth spoken intended to hit the Winchester like a tidal wave of ice-cold water. Just as expected, Sam has nothing to say to him, his mind most likely choking on that liquefied, raging accusation.

“Get up,” he orders. After that act of impudence the remains of his patience are gone, drowned deep within his anger.

Dean only breathes heavily, looking around himself, hoping to find a solution to his impossible situation. Yet all he manages to do is to only make it worse, for he turns to face him with his hurtful, watery eyes and says “Cas, come on. This is not you.”

Castiel begs to differ. From his point of view, it is quite the other way around: he is not this. He is not a tool. He is not an object. And he certainly is not an idea planted into Dean’s head, one that is merely a concept that is bound to only tend to his needs and fulfill his pleasures. He was something of the sort, he allowed it for too long, but now it’s over. Where there is no reciprocation, there shall be no co-operation on his part, no more.

“The Castiel you knew is gone,” he informs in an explanatory, unattached tone.

“So what then, kill us?” Dean asks. And this is a stupid, unfair question. Castiel doesn’t know whether he should find it amusing or annoying. It’s probably both. It seems that Dean Winchester, all out the sudden is in fact able to  think too high of his importance.

“What a brave little ant you are,” Castiel brings him down to Earth, intentionally, but falsely makes him feel unimportant. Just as worthless and neglected Castiel felt after being rejected. He almost smiles while speaking, but there’s something vicious in the way his lips curl when those poisonous words fall. “You know you’re powerless,” he continues triumphantly, because he reads it clear that Dean knows that he in fact, finally is. Dean just decides no not let that sink in for his face burns with disbelief and pain. “You wouldn’t dare move against me again.” But Castiel pushes that deeper in a silent, but animalistic tone, yet his eyes are daring, resting on Dean’s lips, wondering with curiosity and a somehow indescribable appetite, what will Dean’s mouth do next. In an almost endearing manner, he says “that would be pointless. So I have no need to kill you.” His eyes, however, strike Dean with something very far from warmth. “Not now,” he says soothingly, and unexpectedly, something like a purr crawls beneath his words, as he continues, to his own amazement. “Besides…” he trails off with sentiment and longing in his voice, that he quickly attempts to reinforce with a sarcastic note, “once you were my favorite pets.” And by “once” he really means “still”. By “favorite” he means Dean. And by “pets” he wants to mean more than that, but something in his mind offers him vivid images of this righteous man reduced to a loyal, obedient and delightful toy. And Castiel knows this is not true, not right, so he tries his best to dispose of it. It’s not him, it’s the serpents who try to mock him and his love. But the longer he looks at Dean, the harder it gets. Instantly, he shifts his attention onto something else and adds, turning his gaze away just in case, “before you turned and bit me.” The monsters grumble in disappointment, so he shuts them down with the souls. Just as expected, Bobby Singer is far less interesting and certainly less confusing for his thoughts. Dean Winchester, unfortunately, decides to win back the attention.

“Who are you?” he demands. Castiel finds that question particularly and personally offending. Dean has taught him of free will and now that he makes use of it, he apparently fails to recognize him.

“I’m God,” he replies and finds himself kind enough to elaborate on his thoughts. “And if you stay in your place, you may live in my kingdom.” At the same time, he warns him, and his eyes linger on the man with sadness and disappointment, because he knows that it really is not the kingdom Dean wishes to live in. Castiel only regrets Dean had chosen this for himself. He had an alternative, after all. “If you rise up, I will strike you down.” He does not want to dwell on the subject, he cuts it down before getting any graphic ideas of striking Dean down, to the serpents’ greatest amusement and Castiel’s growing concern, in more ways than one, of course. Castiel quiets down the leviathan again, but his insides tremble with their laughter, so he gives himself another reason to speak, to be louder than them. He finally gives his attention to Sam, except that all of it is forced. He doesn’t really care. He does not look at him, he talks quickly, almost mechanically. “Not doing so well, are you, Sam?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Sam lies, as if worried that Castiel may want to turn his current state into something worse.

Dean cuts in, miraculously finding the bravado to speak before Castiel says anything on that matter.

“You said you would fix him. You promised!” he attacks. And in Castiel’s opinion it was a very bad choice to rub that one in so rudely. He might have wanted to do something about Sam’s wall, but now he really doesn’t. He knows that it will only make things between Dean and him more difficult, but he’s too offended to consider it right now. He will find another option. Later. He is God and God should not be bothered with time. If he wants things right – they will be. So, as for now, he decides to remind them of their own crimes against him.

“If you stood down, which you hardly did.”

Dean’s throat falls silent, yet his lips part even wider in disbelief.  Castiel turns his head to face Sam once more. He can’t afford to look at Dean’s mouth and stay calm any longer. He wants it sealed shut for once and there are too many ways to do so, all of them he finds extremely foul. “Be thankful for my mercy. I could have cast you back in the pit,” he reminds them sharply.

“Cas, come on! This is nuts. You can turn this around. Please!” Dean cries out.

But just as everything is wrong – Dean is wrong. He was the only one who could have turned this around, but he clearly chose not to. Castiel won’t turn anything anywhere until Dean changes something in himself first. And he doesn’t think it is possible for him to do anytime soon.  Yet, he still believes it is possible in general. If Dean is so afraid of losing him, and Castiel clearly knows that Dean is, he shall lose him. Dean will not survive alone for long. And he will come back to him, struggling to breathe. Because Castiel is the air that Dean needs to survive. Dean was Castiel’s oxygen once. But now he is God. And God doesn’t need to breathe.

“I hope, for your sake, this is the last you see me,” he says, certain of his plan. Once more, he disappears out of Dean’s sight and reach without ever saying goodbye. In fact, this time it would be even quite inappropriate, considering that that all of this was not anywhere near good.

Castiel is already long and far gone, so he doesn’t exactly see that Dean, subconsciously, is already fighting with his lungs to breathe, that air and hope are draining from his face.

Castiel knows.

Castiel knows because Castiel is God.

Castiel is God so he is certain that he shall not suffocate first.

*

Once upon a time, in what seems to be a whole universe ago, it has been Castiel’s favorite Heaven. Now, after all he has been through, Castiel not only gets to find solace there without any worry. He gets all of Heaven. It is his, all of it. Destined to fix. To be rearranged, mended. To be disembodied part by part and patched up once more by his divine, all-knowing hands. Carved into a whole new animal. One that is loyal, obedient and flawless. A beast which, just like him – is a power not to be fought against – and just like him as well – loves humanity the most. Castiel at this point already knows that there is no use in teaching poetry to fish. He is certain, however, that it is wise to teach a dog to fear the hand. So he does. He begins it right away.

 

The autistic man who drowned in a bathtub on a certain afternoon ran away with his kite, he ran away to the very borders of his own Heaven, but even there he could hear the screaming. The green space below his feet and the blue sky above his head – it all reeked of dying. It has been all stained with blackness. The burned out wing-shaped marks that tainted the sacred lands seemed to look like a memorial. The man could not, despite all his efforts, decipher of what. What is the word that this place need to suffer this much through to remember?

Castiel tells him. Castiel tells him and all of his celestial brethren.

_Order._

He stands among the sea of bodies, his power and his pride entangled in the feathers of the dead. Their Graces sunk into the ground, leaving their eyes empty, terrified. Leaving them and their limbs a screaming and coherent warning for those who had not yet, made their choice, who had not yet met their fate.

He stands in the middle of his righteous slaughterhouse and they all, who had been against him, then crying and begging, surround him like a myrtle wreath. In all of this, he looks so small and alone. But it is a sign that he is great and that he is pure. He is here to bring purification and salvation. He is here to tend after the orphans that have been abandoned by their original Maker. He is here to soothe them. He is here to grip them tight and raise them from perdition. He is the Love, the Wisdom, the Justice and the Power. He is God and he delivers.

But they do not understand. They cry. And bitterly, Castiel muses that they aren’t the first not to understand. Dean always comes first. Sadly, even in this.

Just as he loves Dean – he does love them. He is kind. So he explains. His calm voice pierces their Graces and they shall listen, whether they are willing or not. This is the only day he shall give out his reasoning, give them the commandment, give them a fair warning.

“Understand,” he offers while pacing firmly among the slaughtered. “If you followed Raphael,” eyeing intently the whole Heaven, the entire universe, watching Dean as well, “if you stood against me,” he goes on without really a pause, but he savors the words in his mouth and mind with intensity, “punishment is certain. There is nowhere to hide,” he tells the Angels, he informs the whole creation, he warns Dean, his gaze cold, all seeing, certain as a blade above a victim’s head. “The rest of you,” he regards them  still too nonchalantly, despite attempting to do his best to sound compassionately, “our Father left a long time ago,” and he reminds them that what belongs to the past, remains in the past. “That was hard,” he allows himself to admit, looking everywhere but all the same nowhere in particular, disconnected from the memory, disconnected from his former limits. What is past is the past, after all. “I thought the answer was free will,” he muses bitterly, disappointed greatly with his mistake, with Dean, with his free will and his regrettable choice. So he lets them all know. “But I understand now,” he says as he eventually stops marching. “You need a firm hand,” he tells them, he tells Dean, even though he never gets to hear this admission, he’s not ever meant to, anyway, not really. Castiel pauses with sadness, lets his speech stop in motion as his thoughts come back to Dean once again, quite unwillingly. He looks down, he’s ashamed. While remaining silent for the moment, he wishes he had put a more firm grip on Dean when he still could. Dean needed that, because, apparently, it was his free will that broke them apart and nearly made them turn against each other as if they were strangers or foes. Dean didn’t get the firm hand on his chest and on his face in time, Dean therefore had not learned how to be faithful, loyal and obedient. So while Castiel still intends to fix that mistake, he will make sure right away that his Heaven at least shall be on the right path from the very start. So he goes on. “You need a father. And I am your father now.”

He can hear the celestial voices screaming and crying, panicked, quite overtly disagreeing with his announcement, to say the very least. But Castiel finds himself completely unperturbed. He is God and he controls all. He does not need to worry. What kind of God is the God that worries?

A dead God.

But Castiel is not a dead God, he is the living wisdom, the living truth, the living word.

So a true word of wisdom is what he gives the Heaven. “Be obedient, children.” His mouth is a thin line, his eyes are focused, but squinted, he is not to be challenged and his face serves as a warning. “Or this will be your fate,” he concludes, pointing at the dead, ensuring that those who yet had not seen – shall see, that those who did not believe – shall believe. “It is a new day,” he announces, and he wants that written into the universe with gold ink, for finally the first dawn of righteousness had come. His voice is serene, but his heart is a passionate fire. “On Earth and in Heaven,” he speaks, adoring the sweetness of his words, claiming his lands. “Rejoice,” he orders, quietly, yet fiercely, almost like a hiss.

And he can hear voices cheering, excited laughter striking his ears. But it is not Heaven nor Earth that is rejoicing. Heaven fell silent, mournful, petrified. Earth is yet distant and unaware of its new glory. It is the serpents who cheer. It is the serpents who laugh. It is the serpents who celebrate and salute.  It does not matter, though. It reassures Castiel all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from:  
> Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah"


	3. III.

 

**III**

**„And it’s the desperation to hold on to something that can’t be held on to**   **”**

 **_T_ ** _hat thought was foreign but it took you all over_

 **_A_ ** _nd just like that you wanted to take it all over_

 **_M_ ** _ore wanted the monsters which writhed all over_

 **_E_ ** _merging from gangrene that had you all over_

 **_M_ ** _elting into your pure heart that’s now flooded all over_

 **_E_ ** _nd was nearer than you fathomed cause he thinks it’s all over._

_*_

Wherever Castiel goes – the serpents follow. And wherever Castiel isn’t – Castiel is around Dean. At the same time – wherever he is – he is still around Dean. For Castiel is God, he is infinite and omnipotent and while he is everywhere and nowhere at once, all seeing, all hearing, all knowing, the only remaining thing that is just and endless, there’s still one thing he’s not.

He is not with Dean. He is merely and fruitlessly around.

Castiel is curious, but cautious. He keeps himself hidden, passive. Once he was watching his human family as the guardian angel he considered himself being. Now, he does not even have a name for the action he is repeatedly taking. The reason that remains buried deep inside of him, far under the souls and their power and even further under the leviathan, would take “the jealous God” as the most fitting option. But the part of Castiel that has the command dismisses it instantly. He is not jealous. He simply watches because he is God. He is the good God. The bad God abandoned his family. He won’t. He’s watching.

Castiel isn’t alone in his watching. The serpents are curious and demanding. They’re whispering to his eyes and spitting venom into his mind. They’re hungry and impatient.

And how can they be patient? How can Castiel remain patient?

Dean is not making this easy. He spread himself unaware inside the damaged car, he’s writhing, panting, vulnerable and delightful. Open in all the wrong places. If only Dean was as accepting and understanding to him as he is for this particular memoir of a car. Castiel does understand the special sentiment it has. He is however disappointed greatly that even being God did not earn him a place anywhere near special. Castiel would want to be Dean’s home. But Dean has locked all the doors, he seems to have thrown away all the keys. And now he is stubborn, stuck in a dark, claustrophobically small space and soon he will be running out of air. Now, he’s stern, proud, cold and beautiful, isolated in his sadness. He is like the solitary cross on a mountaintop from Friedrich’s painting, he’s admirable but distant art – a concept wrapped into palpable beauty. Dean makes a view he could certainly sink in. Could sink in and freeze.

In all honesty, Castiel wants to think of the majesty of Dean’s face, of the remarkable magnificence of his eyes that are as the plains of his Father’s first made orchard. He tries to think how, if Dean finally came back to his senses and understood him, let him in, how he would tend to that special garden, ripe and heavy with depth and a need to be finally taken care of. He would harvest the fruits of that soul, of those eyes, of that face, and he would caress them all gently before tearing off the innocence from lovely shrub of his skin. And he would prepare a feast so great Dean would never be in hunger of attention and in need of love anymore. He would serve himself to Dean until his decades-long thirst wears off, until he can breathe once more. This is what he wants to think of. This is not what he finds himself thinking about.

Castiel is fronting the Impala’s open door, and moreover, fronting the most intoxicating set of bones, veins, muscle and skin he and his serpents ever came across. They’re steering his eyes. Where he begins with loving and longing, they end up measuring and wanting. He wants to look at those eyes and the beautiful wrinkles around them, he wants to look at his hair so bright and soft in the calm sun, he wants to look at the lightly tanned skin and the cloudless blue sky that can only be a compliment to the greatly-crafted wonder that Dean is, inside and outside as well. He wants to see beauty, to see art. He tries. But the painting is tainted by black, thick ink which, stroke by stroke, is taking away the clarity, the purity. A matter of esthetics becomes a void demanding to be filled. Stroke by stroke, something thrashes inside of him. Blinded by the blackness, dulled by the ink, all he sees is legs moving, tight material, a back arching. Doing it too smoothly. Up and down those hips go. Time and again. And it is infatuating the eyes. So the sight does go on, taking in all it can contain. A shirt that it is like second skin, but too much, too much hidden away. Covered in sweat, showing every muscle, wet. Rolled up here and there, revealing a glimpse of the delightful flesh gleaming in the sun. Still not enough. Like a story cut in the middle. Something unthinkable and offending. The eyes are burdened with a need to read that story to the end, the hands want to read those hypnotizing hips with Braille.

But it is not meant for them to have. Maddened, darkened,  Castiel’s eyes reach out for another torn out passage. A chest that is broad, containable, manageable, comfortable to lay on. One that has muscles and ribs that his fingers and his teeth eagerly wish to count. Wrapped up in a skin that the tongue wants to taste. Hidden beneath a fabric that makes the serpents and his eyes angry. Among this, he hears the music of a throat grunting, a mouth releasing air roughly, heavily, a song of an exhausted body, put near its limits, tuned up with almost every friction. Slowly, eventually, against the good will and against the pure heart, the primal things release a set of sounds through his own vocal cords and mouth. A moment too late he realizes he allowed them.

And Castiel is fronting the Impala’s open door with his throat humming in unison, purring in a syncope with the song of Dean’s body, the melody that Castiel knows he interprets wrong, but his loins want to dance and shiver to it all the same. His eyes follow every movement, he inhales all of it, his nostrils and his lips respond to the view, all of it a predatory warning. But he does nothing, he does not make a step forward, his fingers are still, even though the leviathan demand taking an action, even though everything inside his vessel and the vessel as well try to push forward. But he does not let the gravitational pull of Dean’s body take him in, doesn’t let it take him anywhere.

Castiel is good. Castiel would never hurt Dean. He only wants him to learn and listen. The serpents only want him to be strained, tested, conquered and taken as a trophy. But he is not like them. He can only let them see things, want things and say things, but they can make him do nothing. They are irrelevant to the very nature of his cause, and his cause, he reminds himself, is not this. He stops his own throat in an abrupt halt. The leviathan request a compromise and will not be silent until it is given. His eyes linger over Dean still, then.

But even that comes to an end when a new element enters and distorts the picture. Bobby Singer came along to keep an eye on his devastated, wayward son. Instinctively, out of respect that remains somewhere, Castiel regains his neutral composition. He straightens himself up and darts his gaze away. He nearly almost clears his throat before he remembers that either way, he’s invisible and also he’s God. He scolds himself for the unneeded contrition. He has no need to bow or explain himself in front of an old man. In front of anybody. Except of himself.

“So, you fixin her or primal screamin?” the man asks Dean, but subconsciously the words put Castiel back in his place, back onto the rails of his duty.

He’s not here for any animalistic activities. He is here to fix what is broken.

Castiel likes Bobby Singer. Castiel respects him, still. He would consider it very unfortunate if he had to fight against him, eventually. He is grateful for him taking care of his family, even though the family is at odds with him right now. It is a matter of time, Castiel reminds himself. A matter of time and his orchard will be calling out to him, asking for water, asking for air. Castiel always came when Dean called.

But now, Castiel is hiding.

And now also, he learns that Dean is hiding too.

They are merely an arm’s length apart, but for Castiel it feels as if they were times and universes away, two parallel lines. Castiel does not know how to bend them to meet again. With every swig of his beer, with every sign of pain on his face, with every note of strain, of anger in his voice, with every word of his dripping with lack of hope and lack of will, Dean is further and further away. He is calm. He seems calm. But he is like a running river, not as the  constant of a lake. The levee keeping him away from the sea is wearing thin. Castiel cannot help but wonder if Dean will make to change his mind in time before he will dissolve in the foreignness, before once more, the two of them shall become strangers. He keeps on watching Dean with growing worry and decreasing patience. He hears him say it, an offending accusation, defeat and anger entangling his words like poison ivy.

“If you stick your neck out, Cas steps on it.”

But Castiel doesn’t want them to stick their necks out. What he wants is a sticked out hand. A hand open and friendly. Not a fist, not knuckles white with despair, not fingers drunk with the failure. That lack of faith is a disease Dean Winchester himself has to cure.

 If there is a place which God cannot enter uninvited, it would be a human heart. God can enter that space, rampant, furious and desperate to stay, but it is not the same place after all. A self-destruction mechanism, or perhaps, the oldest sort of magic there is, forces the heart to collapse and sometimes, when it is too sore, it turns into dust after an unwanted attempt at a conquest. Sometimes, when it held too much tears, into water.  Castiel either does not know it or he prefers to pretend that he has never learned it at all. Admitting it would mean that there is a strong possibility Dean will never return to him. So Castiel chooses to believe that through the suffering of loss and disconnecting, he is not about to make Dean bend his will, but merely help him change his mind, fix his mistake.

 Yet Dean, for now, does not want to fix that mistake,  he wants to fix something else, but Castiel supposes that he mostly wants a distraction.

“So you know what I’m gonna do?” he starts, and Bobby, though wary, lets him continue. “I’m gonna fix this car. I can work on her till she’s mint. And when Sam wakes up, no matter what shape he’s in, we glue him back together, too. We owe him that.”

Castiel figures that a whole lot of water will have to flow before Dean is willing to find the time to admit that he was wrong. Sam always comes first because the blood and the pain is urgent. The car comes second, because Dean’s burning hands are itching and the mind is willing to wander from the status quo, from the flock as well. Castiel understands, though. After all, he does experience the same issue. There is too little in his palms right now and too heavy in his head. He also needs a distraction. He wanted to save the world, so he shall mend it as his pastime. He is going to save this world. He will work on it until it is pure. And when Dean wakes up from his denial because of the shape he’ll be in, Castiel will put him back together, too. He’ll owe Dean that, then.

But only then.

However before Castiel flies off to tend his own pleasant distraction, he decides to offer Dean his as well. He supposes that it might speed the whole process up. The sooner Dean is done with everything else, the sooner he will find himself forced to resolve this issue of theirs.

Castiel places his vessel’s fingers on the slightly warmed up temple of the boy and orders Sam Winchester to wake up and walk to his brother. And whatever God says, becomes law. Enochian syllables echo in his skull and the words become truth. But even before Sam opens his eyes, he does not remember what woke him.

The boy however was not completely mended. Salvation is a prize that comes out of devotion and faith. When Dean offers those to his God, the reward and far more than that shall be given. Ask and it shall be answered. Knock, and it shall be opened.

*

The church is white, clean, modest. But Castiel sees and hears through the façade of the building and he knows that its insides are far from pure. The very fundaments are wrong, hurtful. And he is here to rebuild all of it. Castiel, the God, wants to make the house of Holy into a home for the everything devout. And by everything he still means mostly Dean, even though he tries so hard not to. But, Castiel justifies himself, if he makes a world in which Dean Winchester the miserable himself will finally be comfortable to live in, then everyone would be more than content in that world at that point. Castiel knows Dean’s fears and insecurities better than his vessel’s palm. He knows Dean better than Jimmy Novak knew his child. Castiel sees, he knows and he will put an end to it once and for all.

The horrendous words of that preacher and many others similar to him are annoying Castiel to the extent where even his nostrils are expressing discontentment upon hearing such blasphemy. His hands itch with a need for action. The serpents keep staring into him, on the man, they’re waiting, they’re anxious, they’re more than forward looking to whatever is to come.

“But that’s why we raise our voices!” the leader rants. “And picket their so-called weddings and their funerals! Someone has to speak for God,” he states in the end, as if it was an excuse for his pointless hatred. The congregation seems to be happy with his words. But Castiel is as far from it as God can only be. He supposes he has had enough of that particular speech.

“And who says you speak for God?” he cuts in coldly and the leviathan hiss and writhe inside him, ready. The crowd turns to face him, unsettled, but he does not care right now, he goes on. A punishment can’t be served until the guilt is explained. “You’re wrong,” he says, somewhat weakly for a God. “I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation.” For a millisecond he finds himself unfocused as his thoughts wander off slightly because the serpents are fond of the word “sexual” and they want to make him dwell upon it in a very different way than he intended. As he continues, he wants to look at the cross, at the altar, he wants to think what for and where he came from, but his mind slips away from Christianity one conjured vivid image at a time and before he knows this, he is thinking about Corinth, about Cyprus, about Bacchanalia, about kadesh, and it is all painted with Dean’s flesh.  Castiel decides it is about time to shift the subject elsewhere entirely. “On the other hand, I cannot abide hypocrites like you, reverend.”

“Okay, fun’s over, friend,” the man tries, terrified an annoyed probably all the same.

Castiel somewhat agrees. Fun is over. But not his, the preacher’s is. He walks to the man slowly as he continues to speak, undisturbed by the crowd, by what he is about to do, by anything at all.

“Tell your flock where your genitals have been before you speak for me.”

“And who the heck are you?”

“I’m God,” he tells the man so calmly and firmly that the congregation can’t help but pay attention, alarmed greatly.

 A man, an ant, nothing more, rises from his seat and tries to stand up against him. Castiel stops him without moving a limb. For some reason, he’s almost amused by the terror painted on his face. Castiel’s mouth delivers a tiny smile that he is not aware of. The serpents are slowly pulling the heavy curtains of calmness away. Castiel’s mouth is their window through which they taste the world. The immobilized man collapses heavy back on his seat and the wood crumbles under his weight. At the same time, the locks to the leviathan windows collapse the same as the bench did under that man. Silence falls and Castiel the God announces his law, his eyes cold, ruthless and focused once more.

“And he who lies in my name shall choke on his own false tongue and his poisonous words shall betray him.”

What does God say – it is.

The preacher falls, dead in an instant, the venom of his lies making its way out of his throat for the last time. And with the first man falling down dead, the locks break and the heavy windows open for the serpents. Castiel’s hand had taken a life and through his will, through his veins, they feed. They have tasted blood for the first time in ages and they were so hungry, so needy for too long. They thrash inside of him, rampant and raw as if they were climaxing while savoring the preacher’s filthy soul.

Castiel does not want to listen to any of it but the monsters inside of him don’t care, so he speaks to the crowd that is outside and willing to hear him out.

“For I am the Lord, your God.”

But it is not the church folks he gets a direct response from, it’s the serpents.

 _Castiel,_ he hears them calling while they keep writhing inside with such a force he barely stands on his feet. _Cas,_ they go on again by the name Dean has given him, demanding food, attention, cooperation, of everything – more. And it hurts double. Nobody has called him this in a while. The only thing he had was returning to all the fond memories of Dean calling him by his new name and reliving them on a loop. It was a routine, it was the oxygen Castiel swore he did not need. And when he can finally hear his name again, it’s not Dean. It’s the monsters. It is a low blow and he feels it far too strong as for God, but he does not let them win. He is God and he is here to do good, he reminds himself. He looks away from his burning insides, from the corpse, from the terrified mass of people and he wanders with his gaze to the window for there is light and light is distracting, pure and good. There is a stained-glass window with a portrait of the Holy Son and he makes sure for everyone to know that there is no one holier than him today, but what he does not know is that the new image he leaves behind is like the writing on the wall, for undersigned by his hand, a tiny streak of black runs down his painted imitation’s nose. And he does not know that when his omnipotent palm burns the wood in anger and despair it leaves a foul black mark, as if it was mold, rotting, decomposing.

 _Mene, Mene, Tekel, Parsin,_ the leviathan chant, but Castiel is God and he does not have to listen. So they change their tactic to demagogy and cry louder that this was only an appetizer, that they were suffering and hungry for so long, they try to appeal to his heart that he knows how it is to be starving, to be in undeserved pain for too long. They try to convince him that there are still so many weeds that need to be ripped out of this world until it is really purged. They peek through the window that they opened, they inhale the universe they wish to devour, but they tell him that the justice is his.

Castiel takes two hundred filthy false prophets and hatred-feeding liars down, one after another, a church after a church, a town after a town, leaving a corpse behind a corpse, leaving the serpents fed for a moment, leaving them stronger and convinced that soon they will be ready to take it all over.  Only he does not pay attention to their sudden silence, does not suspect them of scheming for he is busy basking in the fiery bolt of pride that struck him after he caught the millisecond of jealousy exploding on Dean’s face like fireworks, illuminating it with melancholy and disappointment for a moment. It was a glimpse, but it was there. So Castiel found himself curious with what Dean is thinking about his ways of making the world a better place.

*

And these days Dean tends to spend most of his time in and on his precious car, their state a perfect illustration for their hopeless situation. Dean’s in the Impala, but he’s grounded. He can’t make an open move because there is not a move anymore that would make any sense. So Dean remains immobile and attempts to fix everything there is to fix around the subject, but not the problem itself. Castiel of course disagrees with Dean’s eavesdropped train of thought and noticed the taken course of action, but he has to admit, that so far, he is doing the same thing. Except that it really is Dean’s turn to make a move.

Putting that constant bitter feeling aside, this time Castiel is actually able to exist around Dean with a sense of tranquility he would find suspicious considering the recent events if he only bothered to spare it a thought. The leviathan remain quiet, as if they were sleepy and overfed and they only give Dean a rather empty glare once in a while, mostly only when he speaks. And Dean does speak every now and then, even though he supposes he is alone. He doesn’t talk to the radio screeching with eerie news and those words are not meant for his car as well. Castiel smiles, this time with a smile that is his own, one that he wants and one that he actually feels. Dean is talking to him. Even though he does not quite want him to receive that message, he sends it. Castiel can’t help but wonder if it is not the beginning of Dean’s subconscious reaching out for the air and the water that he is running short on.

Dean is working on the door in the warmth of the sun, secluded in the enclave of his car that is now so raw and bare that the rays of light make it looks so bright that it almost seems blue. Castiel does not want to get too psychically close just in case, so he chooses to linger in the backseat. They both decide to listen to the radio and contemplate their work, respectively, while listening to the speaker’s report.

“Believed to be targeted hits of high up in the white supremacy organizations. The FBI now believes The Ku Klux Klan has been forced to disband.”

“Can’t argue with that one,” Dean states, shrugging.

Castiel reads a note of contentment in his voice. He knew Dean would be at least a little pleased with that.

 

But it isn’t always this good. Sometimes it’s really bad. Sometimes Dean disagrees too much.

When Castiel gets rid of another group of conmen and vile monsters which feed on weaknesses and insecurities, Dean, to his great and sour surprise, happens to be extremely irritated about it. He bitterly cuts in and elaborates to Sam with “Of course, old Cas wouldn’t smite Madison Square Garden just to prove a point.”

 And it made Castiel so angry he felt like striking down another lot of  hopeless sinners just because. But the heavy words that come afterwards hit Castiel so hard that for a moment he does not want to do anything at all anymore because he doesn’t think it would have any sense at all.

“He is off the deep end of the deep end,” Dean announces in a tone that implies that Castiel is now forever crossed off the list of the good things in the world. “And there is no slowing down.”

He is more than surprised to see that if there is anyone that still has any faith in him, it’s Sam Winchester. Even through his anger Castiel notices this and appreciates the boy still, just like he used to in the past. All the same he knows that it is a faith misplaced. Castiel does not have to come back to the right track – he is on it.

“So what? Try to talk to him again?” Sam offers.

“Sam,” Dean gives a warning, but his brother takes that as nonsense and ignores it completely. With that Castiel can agree.

“Dean, all we can do is talk to the guy.”

But Dean is having none of those explanations. The only thing he has is disappointment and raw anger.

“He's not a guy. He's God, and he's pissed. And when God gets righteous, you get the hell out of the way. Haven't you read the Bible?” he spits it all out in one breath, maybe because it was just too heavy and it fell all at once. Or maybe because he didn’t want to give Sam a chance to interrupt his tirade in an attempt to find a weak point in his reasoning. Or maybe because he wanted the conversation to be as short as possible. Perhaps all of the above, perhaps none.

That doesn’t matter to Castiel at this moment, he doesn’t have the luxury to afford thinking about it right now, so to speak. This certainly isn’t the acknowledgment of his godhood Castiel wanted to get, but sadly, in this very second Dean is right. Castiel is pissed. But not in general – just like Dean suggests – he is pissed right now and he is pissed in Dean’s general direction. And Castiel wants to punch something. But he’s lacking the will to raise his fists and he’s lacking words just as well.

“I guess,” apparently so does Sam.

But Dean is so angry, he has yet so much of those words and dark sea to spill, so he floods. Quick, heavy and efficient. One tidal wave of bad water.

“Cas is never coming back. He has lied to us, he used us, he cracked your gourd like it was nothing. No more talk. We have spent enough on him.”

And with this Castiel almost sinks. But whether in anger or pain he fails to decipher.

“Okay,” Sam gets the message just fine and finally, so does Castiel.

So he – the castaway God – gets the hell out of the way before he gets too righteous.

He goes off to India where he occupies his thoughts and hands with doing good, doing something he was supposed to do after all, and finally, doing something that has nothing in common with Dean. But there are still too many little things that remind of him. And every memory gets worse. It’s an ambivalent mess, the memories are either too hot or too cold on his heart. The ocean water does not put the fire down nor the cheering of the healed  melts the ice. Castiel tries to find himself an asylum, but the land of blue confusion goes with him everywhere. An entire universe of problems that can be summed up with one word: Dean. And it stuck to him like a parasite. But it is not the only parasite that haunts his thoughts. Wherever he goes – the leviathan follow. And, slowly, gradually, almost unnoticeably, they keep covering his insides with mold. They keep tainting every muscle of his vessel, poisoning every gland, infecting him with a hunger that he should not have. One that cries back to that sunny day in the car when he was watching Dean from the outside. One that cries back to the night in that alley where he could feel his breath on his vessel’s skin. One that cries back to the evening when he drank a liquid store and could not take his eyes off of him. One that cries back to the morning when he gripped him tight, brought him back and piece by piece, through every muscle, every blood drop, every bone, all the organs, made him new, the memory of that body printed within his grace. It is a hunger that distorts everything and makes it ugly. And by everything Castiel means mostly Dean.

*

The serpents are older than India. The serpents are older than Castiel. If they feel something, they know. They know that the wicked quasi-God soon will be ready. But they know that they are done with him now. One thing they do not know is how long are they willing to wait.

Castiel finally allows himself to notice that the leviathan have gotten eerie. He does not know what to make of it. He decides it is about time to make certain precautions. He needs to keep everything that he has fought for so long and so hard for, safe. He swallows bitterly and painfully as he goes to see Crowley because in the end, and no amount of denying makes that different, he knows what he mostly means by everything. He means it too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from:  
> Fischerspooner's "Never Win"  
> (I only came across Bennassi's remix, so I had that piece in mind)


	4. IV.

**IV**

**“now my bitter hands cradle broken glass of what was everything”**

**_T_ ** _winkle, twinkle, little God_

 **_H_ ** _ow He wonders what you are_

 **_E_ ** _erie dreams tear down His heart_

 **_N_ ** _othing’s left, it turns to dust_

 **_D_ ** _eath himself abandons hope_

 **_I_ ** _nept souls reach for the shore_

 **_S_ ** _ilent waters fill the sun_

 **_S_ ** _helter falls and safety dies_

 **_O_ ** _nly  need remains up high_

 **_L_ ** _oins fooled with lullabies_

 **_V_ ** _enom, gangrenę in your eyes_

 **_E_ ** _ven He can’t stop you now._

_*_

Dealing with Crowley was hardly a good distraction, but it was one nonetheless. It took Castiel’s mind off Dean and off the fact that his resources of souls are getting thinner by the hour because keeping the leviathan at bay drains him almost dry. And they need to stay immobilized. He has got a vague idea what could they do to the world and it’s one thing, but he has quite the sufficient knowledge what might they do with Dean only for the sake of toying with both of them. He cannot, however, let this thought linger on him because the serpents would surely like to dwell on the subject and try to force his own mind and vessel to participate in the idea as well. They did spend enough of time on that already. Castiel needs to vent, needs to channel his thoughts and actions somewhere else. He decides to serve another portion of punishment to manipulators and liars which intoxicate this beautiful world. He is swift and efficient in delivering justice. He is humane. He does not allow the leviathan to enjoy their meal, but they still feed upon every kill, whether Castiel likes it or not. They are getting stronger with every feast. He on the other hand gradually weakens. Yet he still remains far ahead of them.

He, in fact, remains far ahead of many things. He does not stay with the Winchesters. He cannot afford to pay Dean a visit after those last harsh words that he has heard – perhaps because of anger, perhaps because he is somewhat afraid he might forge his passive anger into action, once he sees the face that he both misses dearly and fails to bear its very sight. He stays physically away but he still hears them. He is God, he hears everything. And he sees everything. Sometimes, he just chooses not to.

And on a certain gruesome night when he’s surrounded by the serpents, by the souls, by humans, by the universe, but he still feels bitterly empty and alone, he catches out Dean’s voice once more, tied to his memory like an anchor, deeply hidden within his grace like a wreck on the bottom of a sea. It is not the first time, but every time he is mentioned by Dean’s lips it strikes him still, like a deer trapped in the headlights. This time, Castiel notices right away, there is something different lingering in the conversation that Dean has engaged himself in. It is not the first time someone emptily announces they have to hunt him down, either. But there is a particular detail that gets Castiel’s urgent attention.

“There’s gotta be something that can hurt him,” Sam pushes.

“He’s God, Sam,” Dean retorts after a moment of silence. After a moment of genuine sadness, nostalgia. And Castiel sees him walking away, hiding his solemn, tired face from his brother. “There’s nothing,” Dean adds and Castiel reads: nothing that can change that, nothing that can stop that, nothing that can undo or heal that hurting of his or apparently make Castiel hurt in exchange. And after that, Dean’s mind freezes. Ignites back with a heavy realization. “But there might be someone.” Dean means himself, mostly. He regrets that he had to be the one to bring them, the two of them, here. But yes, he does have another idea as well.

This, too, does not pass unnoticed by Castiel who, upon making this discovery, finds himself becoming even more wrathful.  And he also finds himself thinking that he is ready to let go, to cut off that rotting limb of his that Dean is, to abandon the unhealthy sentiment that keeps him away from becoming limitless greatness, to swim away from the bay of memories into the warm, infinite depths of godhood. Apparently, being God destines to mournful solitude. Except that, Castiel is far more angry rather than grief-stricken. A stab from Sam Winchester – the boy king with a great history of making the wrong choices, wrong alliances, skilled in hurting the ones he loves behind their back – this is something Castiel can predict and endure.

But Dean Winchester – the one who was always worth it, the one that is sacred like the Word: for through his being alone, things become truths, the one that starts and ends stars, dreams and universes, the one who always believed the most, who shone with his faith and devotion to him, fierce and rigid, death bringing and life giving as the Sun – had made his mind and made his mouth declare an end to all that is precious. Betrayal a thick, blinding cobweb hanging off of his lashes, betrayal in the soft skin of his lips, betrayal lingering between his gritted teeth, betrayal on his harsh, pink tongue, betrayal in his sore, drunk throat, betrayal in his lungs, betrayal a mold covering his ribs, a virus striking his stomach, a cancer for his liver, colons and spleen, an infection for his boiling blood, and most of all, a painful, long and fiery death on his loins. If Death is what Dean Winchester wants, Death shall Dean Winchester get. If Dean wants to tear Castiel apart, then be it. Castiel knows deep inside that if anything, it will destroy them both, but he is furious and deaf to his heart and to Dean’s.

He stands unmoved like a statue, his all-seeing eyes brimmed with a vision of ripping Dean asunder. Part by part through his legs, move by move through his womb, by his vessel’s hands, by himself, from the inside. All melting like hot clay then crumbling like porcelain beneath the typhoon of his palms. His fingers need to sink in, need to scratch everything away and have it no more. Because everything is, by all means, fallen, cold and dead. And by everything, Castiel means mostly Dean.

Dean, who had decided to side with Crowley once more, this time to destroy him only because he teamed up with that Demon only to save him in the first place. Dean, who spat the given salvation back in Castiel’s face. Dean, who gave him life, set him on fire, forced to burn out whole. Dean, who desecrated his ashes, who danced in them like a shameless whore. Dean, who received the aqua de vida but offered a wall of ice in return. Dean, who only said he was there when Castiel needed him most.

The bitter thoughts fall heavy one after another, every “Dean” a dense drop of pain flooding Castiel’s heart, enough to make a rain, enough to summon thunder. The garden of flesh-eating atrocities grown inside of Castiel’s grace feeds wisely on the water. The air is wet with their murmurs and his nostrils intake all of it hungrily, his eyes are blazing in the night with sickness, with fire, with anticipation. And they surpass the stars in their livid shining.

*

The leviathan are clever. They are wiser than Angels, wiser than Demons, wiser than all prophets, all messiahs and all existing abomination. They are old, hungry and impatient. They want release, they wish to spread their endless limbs and feel the air and blood upon the myriads of their teeth. But the souls keep them at bay and of that they have grown weary. Therefore they do beam with quiet pride for they have succeeded in turning hearts against one another. They need the conflict to climax and they will have the fault clear on their host’s hands. He shall cry in horror of his thoughts and doings, he will seek salvation and redemption. And he will purge himself, but he will only become clean of his power. They will strike like a thief before the dawn and death shall awake him. The serpents are as done with Castiel as he thinks he is with the favorite humans of his. They sneer, for it is a love for which they are grateful. What brought them here is so fearless and reckless it should have been locked up instead of them, they suppose. In their own way they shall make a tribute to it, and the thought is so entertaining they barely manage to remain calm inside of the corpse in which they travel. It has all been built and prepared for their kingdom to come. Now, they will only pull the final levers. One through the foolish Angel’s beloved creature’s mouth and one through their vessels hands. It is already written. It is done before it happens. There is no force that can stop it. Iron is a straw and bronze is like rotten wood. The leviathan already wrote the prologue to their story with jagged potsherds trail in the mud, in the Angel. In his mind, on his skin, red lines and burns, bearing a long poem about the new greatest fall.

*

In a world where everyone is blind, the blessed beggar is the first one to speak the truth.

“God bless you, sir,” the man thanks hearing the rattling of coins inside of his can. But Castiel seems blind and deaf. Perhaps God blessed him long ago, but he has already parted his ways with that blessing. That green-eyed, stunning blessing abandoned him first. But somehow, it still had not left his swollen mind.

“You’re a true believer,” Castiel states, humbled and astonished by the man’s faith, awed by the delicate but undeniable conviction in his words upon which message he remains unhearing. “People say I’m wrathful,” he opens up, feeling deeply alone, he excuses himself, so strongly needing to be understood. “But I only punish those who forsake me,” he adds and when those words drip out of his mouth, there is only one face he sees: one that forsook him the worst. “I am a just God,” he sighs, exasperated.

“Excuse me?” but this man does not understand him, either.

So Castiel proves that he is just and that he delivers.

“See?” he inquires with desperation and hope as he returns the sight to the suffering one sitting before him.

But the man sees something else, something more, something unplanned. Because a vision that knows no lies can only speak the truth.

“Your face…What’s wrong with you?” he asks with a trembling voice.

For what the man saw was worse than years of suffering, of poverty, of painful hunger and of nights on the streets.

*

Castiel touches his face and instantly, he knows. The serpents try to push through. They left an ornament of a warning of his vessel. In fact, they left a brand. They had marked him as their own. He disagrees.

Quickly, he gets them put into order. Because everything now is about order. Castiel said it himself, after all.

 _It’s a mistake. Too late. Let us out, let us through_ – they inform, they demand and they claw at him and lash out at the souls and at his insides.

Castiel barely breathes because the pressure almost takes him apart. His eyes are frozen with fear for the first time in a long while. He sees too clearly the terror that writhes just beneath his skin. The leviathan bare their countless teeth at his souls, at his harpoons, at his spears. He sees their face and he sees their thoughts.

“No,” he only musters. But whether it was a banning decree for he serpents or an announcement of his own failure, for a moment he is not entirely sure. He cannot allow himself to be afraid. He attempts to suffocate the monsters again and in doing so, he wastes a part of his resources too great to be considered appropriate.

*

He knows the Winchesters are ready even before they know it. He arrives on time, a moment before Death does. Hidden, he stands behind Dean’s back and keeps a sharp eye on the whole conspiracy while at the same time, letting himself greedily intake Dean’s scent right from the revealed part of the hunter’s neck. He has got a warm, nice skin and the tiny hairs make his lips and nose tingle. Castiel sees the goose bumps appear and as pastime, he tries to count all of the elements of that beautiful ornament. This will be missed, he ponders as if he were mourning already, but at the same time, he had not made a move, though he could have done it so easily. He knows Dean is afraid, twice as afraid as he was a second ago because he feels a presence of some sort and he could have sworn that something like a huff of a breath keeps moisturizing his neck. And yet, it is not the worst thing because something underneath his brain, a shattered-glass fragment of his thought, an internal notion sudden and disturbing like a leak, beckons the mouth that is not there to come closer. Of this in particular Dean Winchester is afraid the most. Because of this fear, the man attempts to flee this exact spot.

“Fried pickle chip?” he gives himself an excuse and tries to win Death’s favors. Tries to mask the noise of that leak, because it is still calling _please, follow_. “They’re the best in the state,” Dean adds, because he still hears himself thinking.

And Castiel, of course, hears it even clearer. His insides beam with triumph and the leviathan make slow, needy circles down in his loins. This obviously does not come pass Death’s attention. Even though he acts offended with Dean’s offer, his eyes are firmly and sternly fixed upon Castiel, his stare filled with accusatory disgust. Castiel’s glare has a matching determination, a threat sewn subtly into it. Death does not give his presence away. At this point, it hardly matters anymore.

Dean fails to give a reason why does he want Castiel killed, but demands it done anyway. Dean cannot explain, he does not want Castiel dead. What he wants, Castiel reads, is not this, but the man’s mind can’t comprehend to elaborate on what stands behind that idea, either.

“Amazing,” Castiel finally comments the whole situation.

Dean turns to face the voice instantly. He looks hurt, but not as hurt as Castiel does. The man’s eyes widen considerably upon seeing the damage on his face. Death gives him a mocking smirk.

“I didn’t want to kill you,” Castiel beings absentmindedly, his eyes anywhere but on anybody in the room. “But now…”

“You can’t kill us,” Dean retorts too sharply. His stare is focused, sad and definite with conviction.

“You’ve erased any nostalgia I’ve had for you, Dean,” Castiel informs. He looks at Dean eventually, and the longer he does so, the more he boils with every possible emotion.

Dean, however chooses to make it clear that he did not consider Castiel’s fondness of him as the reason for remaining alive.

“Death’s our bitch. We ain’t gonna die even if God pulls the trigger.”

Death does not want them to have this conversation. He can tell from Castiel’s eyes alone that if Dean makes another wrong, or perhaps, simply a sudden move, Castiel will jump him like a predator functioning somewhat on the leviathan instincts. He tries to shift his point of rage instead.  Death sees what Castiel sees. And he despises it greatly. There is not a wall he could ever create to pacify the after effects of that touch if it eventually came.

Castiel knows that as God, he should not, but deliberately lets him do it. The retribution he would serve Dean – hidden like a stream running underground, deep, deep inside of him lingers that love never erased, and whether he wants it or not, even he is still afraid of that burning vision, of that fire in his hands. The tongues of that fire thoroughly lick and tease his vessel’s every single nerve. He knows that he would lay himself down on Dean’s womb, hiss every secret of the universe into it until it opens, he would take Dean as whole, have him and then make him into parts. His urgent fingers would dig away all the burning flesh and he would all nest himself beneath the canopy of Dean’s sweaty, salty skin among the rich alabaster columns and domes of his man’s, beautiful bones. He would declare Dean his and he would kiss and kiss and kiss his halted heart until not a drop of blood would stain it anymore, he would rest there, with his heavy, dizzy head beneath it like under a mistletoe, his entirety melted into that crumbled abdomen, sucked into that torn, revealing mouth, embellished with those limbs and tendons as if in a summer wreath. From that, he is a moment away.

“God? You look awfully like a mutated Angel to me,” Death spits. “Your vessel’s melting. You’re going to explode” he warns and they both know what he means. Dean doesn’t.

“No, I’m not. When I’ve finished my work I’ll repair myself,” Castiel replies and for now, for Dean’s sake, he really does believe what he says. Dean does not know who to believe. Dean makes too many sudden movements and his mouth is open far too wide, Castiel barely remains still and he and Death both know it, but Dean doesn't.

“You think you can because you think you’re simply under the weight of all those souls, yes? But that’s not the worst problem,” Death states what Castiel is already aware of. But he does not let him see that he knows. “There are things much older than souls in Purgatory. And you gulped those in, too.”

The leviathan cheer, victorious. Even Death is afraid to say their name. Even Death is afraid to call. But it is too late. They already came.

“Irrelevant,” Castiel quickly cuts it because Dean’s tensed face is already blooming with questions and he is turning to look at him once more with those green eyes of his which Castiel is more than thrilled to keep in his pocket and lick them goodnight. “I control them.”

“For the moment,” Death points out, Dean shifts again, opens his mouth yet wider and Castiel can feel the heat coming out of his pores, Dean is too close, he is far too close, the obliterating scent of his body and his fear make want to swallow hard, his tongue and teeth yearning for the prize.

“Wait,” Dean stutters. “What older things?”

“Long before God created Angel and man, he made the first beasts – the Leviathans,” Death explains and he faces Castiel and the serpents while calling them by their name, so they would know that he is not afraid.

“Leviathans?” Dean repeats emptily and the monsters writhe with sly joy inside of Castiel upon hearing that voice call them.

“I’d personally found them entertaining, but he was concerned they’d chomp the entire petri dish, so he locked them away,” Death adds rather nonchalantly and it takes Castiel a great effort to remain in control of his arms, because just as nonchalantly, the leviathan want to shrug with them.

“Why do you think he created Purgatory?” Death asks Castiel reprovingly and the guilt slowly creeps unto his features. For a second, Castiel looks contrite like a scolded dog. “To keep those clever, poisonous things out.”

Castiel cannot help but agree with every part of Death’s description, with God’s plan to lock them away, too. He finds it best for him to think about his fault, because at this point, at this proximity, it is either this or Dean.

“Now Castiel has swallowed them. He's the one thin membrane between the old ones and your home.”

Castiel presumes the insult went far enough. He might have been partially mistaken, but in the end, God was the one to create the leviathan. God was the one to abandon their children. God was the one because of whose faults and doing Castiel had to take the exact path he has taken.  He can take criticism, but insinuating directly to Dean that he had become nothing but a threat to everything the man loves and fights for, and through this – validating Dean’s fears about his godhood, Castiel considers uncalled for to say the very least.

“Enough,” he warns, a little hiss beneath his sharp voice.

“Stupid little soldier you are,” Death mocks him, exasperated.

“Why?” Castiel dares him quietly but venomously and makes a few steps closer. “Because I dared open a door that he shut?” he ponders. “Where is he?” he accuses. “I did a service, taking his place,” Castiel explains.

Death finds the last part either amusingly offensive or offensively amusing.

“Service?” he repeats mockingly. “Settling petty vendettas?”

“No. I'm cleaning up one mess after another.” Castiel retorts. “Selflessly,” he adds.

They both know that it is not exactly true. Dean doesn’t. Death, however subtly, decides to call Castiel out on it, on his leviathan and power deranged mind and the raging thunders echoing between his thighs.

“Quite the _humanitarian,”_ ’ he comments, darting his eyes at Dean and back at Castiel.

“And how would you know?” Castiel spits out angrily while Dean can’t help himself from studying the wounds on his face.

Unfortunately, he knows how Death knows. There is a moment of silence as the two of them glare at each other with cold contempt, the mutual awareness of Castiel’s vivid hunger burdening and thickening the air.

“What are you, really?” Castiel eventually chooses to deflect. “A flyswatter?”

“Destined to swat you, I think,” Death reminds him.

“Unless I take you first,” Castiel counter-threatens sure of his omnipotence.

“Really bought his own press, this one,” Death huffs.  “Please, Cas. I know God, and you, sir, are no God.”

“All right, put your junk away, both of you,” Dean cuts in, confused and irritated. “Look, call him what you want. Just kill him now!”

Castiel turns around to face him, slowly. As he does this, he is still in the process of making the decision. There is wildness flickering through his eyes, but if anything, it happens to be rabid sadness. That was a blow that wasn’t supposed to hurt anymore but still did. Despair floods him entirely and he almost chokes on it.

“All right. Fine,” Death interrupts.

 Castiel simply sets him free, his eyes he keeps locked with Dean’s. He is but a hair away from finally striking the man with his wrath. Here and now, it does not matter anymore. In fact, he is not even anything away, he readies himself for the jump. The filth shall be purged from Dean’s mouth and throat, his fault will be sucked out of his bones, the Holy God will move inside of him, conquering and cleansing and only then Dean will be redeemed.

“Thank you,” Death intervenes swiftly. “Shall we kickbox now?” he adds, in an attempt to distract Castiel and his hungry serpents. “I had a tingle I'd be reaping someone very, very soon,” he comments into the ether, but both he and Castiel know that the message was not meant for any of the humans. It is supposed to be a warning meant to hit the leviathan-free remains of Castiel’s conscience. That “someone” is clearly Dean. It worked.

Castiel flees, internally conflicted. Flees before the filth takes over his mind again. Flees before he admits he was wrong.

*

They charge back at him with seven times more force. He is running with a fever that no Angel, and certainly not God, should have. He is dizzy and heavy, his thoughts are a thousand thoughts and those thoughts do have thoughts that are not his to be. His face is more of a wound than a face. His eyes and his reasoning are fogged too thickly and if anything inside him is glowing like a beacon and begging him to stop, he does not see it. Still rampant to serve punishment, but endlessly lost upon the matter of who is in need of one, Castiel projects his guilt on the outside.

There is a person of great privilege, of great position who lulls the masses that the whole aggressive warfare is a set of means that justify the cause: saving the innocent constituents from the godless policies of the opponents. Yet in the end, it was just a selfish abuse of power.  This is where he started, is it not? To acquire power to save the world from those godless sons who wished to bring the Apocalypse policy upon it. In the darkest back of his skull there is a gangrene-swallowed wound that tells the story of how much angry Castiel is with himself. But all the other ones are louder, screaming of Deans and of injustice. And the serpents lick those bleeding holes with the legions of their poisonous tongues. As the final punishment in result, Castiel decides to erase Michelle Walker because her words in contrast with her doings, ring a certain bell. But it was from the wrong church because the leviathan were the ones to guide him by the legs, by the hands and by the wings. They already have created a way to open the portal again. Now, the Angel has to do nothing more but to gather the power to spill.

It does take some blood to swallow to throw up, Castiel finds himself thinking out of nowhere.

“I’m here to see the senator,” he announces weakly.

“Um, regarding?” an assistant asks. The boy is irritated. His blood will taste like cinnamon.

“Abuse of power,” Castiel speaks and the word “abuse” echoes in his head for a while after it has been said.

“Excuse me?” That’s what people always seem to ask and somehow, always when they say it, Castiel is first to excuse himself.

“I am not petty. I am punishing a woman who causes poverty and despair in my name!” he cries out. “I put your needs first. Don’t you understand?” he wails and he hopes that Dean can hear him, for Castiel is a peculiar God – one that prays to his believer instead. “All of you!” he adds in frenetic desperation. “I am a better God than my father! How can I make you understand?”

And lo, the serpents answer his cries. The flock of teeth falls onto him like locust, blinding him whole, taking every piece of flesh he was inside into their reign. And the very last thing he can hear is his mouth, saying in a voice smooth as silk and sweet as an olive grove, words that he knows far too well, words that are imprinted into his Grace, but did not come out of it: _When he rises up, the mighty are terrified; they retreat before his thrashing._

*

The pace is slow, each step exploring the almost freedom of each teeth-swollen limb. Dozens of scents, each one delightful, each one different, each one new – all of it, oh, so lovely that it will be savored, not swallowed. A beautiful smile at the camera. Dean Winchester wants to look away so terribly, but regardless of his will – he’ll see. This is the victorious smile which shall be worn on that face as a wedding ring that will match the bridal dress of Dean Winchester’s burning skin, as he whole shall be hunted, haunted, then defiled through their stolen flesh and blessed with sacramental demise. They ride one so they will ride the other.

Human skin is such a gift, the most precious one they could ever get from their father. Their nails and their teeth break through it as if through water. So they drink the cinnamons and apples of the blood, get drunk with it and feast on the rich, delicate meat. They dance with the corpses among crimson streaks and celebrate, for soon they shall be free. They dance some more, bite deeper and swallow thicker. And they cannot help but notice, one of them has eyes and lashes just like Dean’s: pleasurable, pretty. A sweet little thing, tastes like apples, smells like the wind in a part of the universe they ate a long time ago, yet before they got locked away. Still keeps gurgling, that pretty thing. Amused, they purr back to him and lower their borrowed mouth down, down, down. Away from the face, from the neck, from the chest, from the stomach. They feed the thirst for that salty, thick water and they take it all. Pretty thing died nicely. Licking the corners of their lips, they think that they wish to have a souvenir.

*

Castiel wakes up with a foul aftertaste in his mouth. He knows some of it is blood, the rest however is foreign at first, but in no time he deciphers it, appalled. “No.” All he has the strength to say if there even is anything left to say at all.

 He reeks of death and as soon as he opens his eyes, he exactly knows why. Bodies everywhere and he can tell that those people met their end in a rich variety of gruesome ways, all of it a morbid, thorough work of his vessel, the innocent hands that were once the salesman’s. “No.” There are so many thoughts inside him, but his mouth is stuck in a loop. He looks at the whiteboard on the wall, there is a message made with blood and Castiel wonders if this is how Jimmy Novak’s handwriting looked like, too. It must have. The blasphemy says:

_We are the Job. Our Father tested us but now he’ll give us plenty. Rejoice with us for we came bearing gifts sweeter than frankincense, myrrh and gold._

Somehow, Castiel knows that he has to check his trench coat’s pockets first. He finds a pair of eyes, green, but not like Dean’s. There are no other eyes like Dean’s to him at least.

He does not know what to do, he does not know where to go. He tries to hide far away from any life, his Grace trembling and terrified of the eerily dormant beasts that had not manifested themselves since. He is willing to wait for his end, he’s willing to die alone and afraid. This is what he deserves, he thinks. But Sam Winchester’s voice beckons him to come home.

“Let us help. Please,” the boy who always believed, who always prayed, who always wanted to fix even at the cost of breaking himself in the process, unto the sky, into his wounded Grace, calls. And Castiel is grateful beyond words. Castiel is humbled for Sam Winchester,  the boy-Christ, in his humanity and forgiveness is more of a saint than he himself could ever become holy.

Castiel lets them help.

The leviathan let him get it. And he is drowning in too much sorrow to think twice about why don’t they hiss a word nor why don’t they move a bit.

Castiel should have spared a single thought for Job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from:
> 
> Pearl Jam's "Black"


	5. V.

**V „And a feeling coming from my bones says find a home”**

**_T_ ** _he autistic God died in a bathtub_

**_A_ ** _nd it was a beautiful sunrise on that day._

**_I_ ** _t was the one that you didn’t get to see._

**_N_ ** _ow, shattered Heaven did rejoice ._

**_T_ ** _he apple of your gangrenę eye_

**_T_ ** _ucked himself into your robe_

**_H_ ** _eld it tight against his lips_

**_E_ ** _ven though it smelled of death_

**_W_ ** _anting to remember all, he inhaled you still_

**_A_ ** _nd he didn’t know_

**_T_ ** _he memory stayed there_

**_E_ ** _ager to reach back_

**_R_ ** _oaming around his soul long after you left._

_*_

Dean reeks of alcohol, long days, and recently, even longer hours of alcohol. Castiel dares to lay his ashamed eyes upon him, sees him with a glass in his hand and a pale face so stern it miraculously seems sober. A face so hollow it gets too painful to look at. Just as quickly, Castiel looks away in humiliation because he knows that Dean’s state is nothing more but burning marks left behind his doings. Dean’s broken voice and numb, compromised mind are certainly one of the most painful reminders of his fatal mistake. But seeing him like this, that ache fights to take the lead and Castiel sadly notices that it is another thing to be terribly wrong. Slaughter of so many should feel worse than a one man’s broken heart.  And yet, it doesn’t. Perhaps it is the core of all things worst and best, Castiel figures, that Dean always comes first. Dean is his pathologic sacrum of some sort, he knows and allows, somewhat even sanctifies that. And maybe that is why he doesn’t have the courage to call him this time.

“Sam,” he begins weakly, his voice hoarse, tired and remorseful, unable to look at any of the brothers in the eye.

The wonderful boy stands up immediately and somehow Castiel feels even worse because he is the one who put him into great misery and refused to lift the burden when he still could and still, having it well-known, Sam Winchester, once more, is the one to offer a soothing hand.

“Cas,” Sam nearly whispers, terrified.

Castiel is swaying heavily on his legs, legs which don’t want to listen to his orders anymore. Every limb he has feels suddenly his, suddenly heavy. Oxygen hurts – both lacking it and trying to take any in. He is nothing but a wound, his face keeps ripping apart with his every frown, his vessel’s skin giving up on the enemy force with every move. He smells of blood just like Dean smells of whiskey.

Dean, who does not speak, does not breathe, who just blinks in horror and stops his drink-wielding hand midway, his eyes beginning to gleam with water, his mouth subtly open. Somehow, those lips do not inflict any kind of repulsing emotions in Castiel anymore. He dismisses it whole because Dean looks like a little child that got hit across the delicate, innocent face of his for no reason. He’s hurt, shocked and stuck up in the limbo of still not believing what had just transpired in the world that the thought he knew.

“I heard your call,” Castiel manages to continue speaking to Sam, trying to keep any remaining appearances of control over anything whatsoever.

But Dean looks up at him. It is not accusatory. It is not demanding. It’s the look of a very old, wordless question, one that chimes through concern and regret, one that bears the smell of those green, gold and auburn leaves that Dean used to rake alone as he yearningly watched him do it. _I was there_ – Dean’s eyes imply. _Where were you?_ They now ask. The hurt dripping through that gaze is a greater blow than an outright accusation would be. Reading this, but still failing to meet the olive pair of shining eyes, Castiel’s façade crumbles, for he is guilty and he knows. With this, Castiel collapses and manages to find an excuse for salvation in the doorframe where his body safely lands. He, however, considers himself compromised completely. He is utterly and hopelessly exposed. Even his magnificent wings of a self-proclaimed God cannot hide him from Dean’s paralyzing, too much knowing eyes.

He manages to look up at Sam and with a heavy breath, the shameful admission comes out of his mouth.

“I need help.”

Sam Winchester does not waste words. He offered help, so help he delivers. Dean Winchester does not remain silent when something happens that he does not wish to continue. Sam rushes over to help Castiel remain on his feet. Dean says nothing. Dean abandons his whiskey, hesitates to move and continues to stare, his silent _wheres_ , _whys_ and _whens_ still echoing inside Castiel’s heart.

He doesn’t get a word from neither of them. But he does get help. Or at least, they all try.

*

After managing to transport the brothers and Bobby Singer back to the infamous laboratory, Castiel’s limbs deny any cooperation. He lies there motionless, bundled and vulnerable. Abandoned by Dean’s attention, but haunted by his whiskey scent. Sam stays by his side, as if he felt guilt strike him because of his brother’s distance and uncanny hostility. Don’t _,_ Castiel thinks, for he is guilty and Dean’s ostracism is not even an accurate start for what the Angel believes he deserves. But this he still does not say, he does not even know how. And after all, it is something all of them perfectly know. Putting that aside, he is almost too weak to speak and he still needs to give all of the directions. Time is of the essence. Time is what can either save them or kill them, he thinks.

Sam is holding one hand on Castiel’s shoulder and one on his knee. It’s affectionate but cruel. Cruel because Castiel gets what he certainly feels he is not deserving and it hurts even more. He wants to fix Sam but he can hardly breathe. He knows the boy is on his edge and that the end of not only his, but also Sam’s everything is near. He wants to soothe the lost, terrified boy, yet he is the one being comforted instead. It’s a nightmare. He needs punishment not compassion. But Sam is always being Christ instead of Yahweh.

Neither really is Dean, though he tries. His wrath is mostly a masquerade. It is there, they all know, but Dean tries and tries to exaggerate, probably in an attempt to prove something to himself alone. And he fails in this task. Castiel can hardly see, but he still can read through Dean, even if it’s weak, even if it’s just a bit. In a million years, maybe, he might be able to seek forgiveness from Dean. He is afraid to do so now, but he feels, that a million years is something neither of them has to spare. Castiel begs the entire universe for half an hour, to be frank. Castiel wishes he could become a saint so his death would bring miracles and good, it would make amends, it would have a point. But he knows it is not possible. He’s spilled so much blood and swallowed so much filth even the darkest sinners in hell are repelled to hear his very name. His name is a curse, a death sentence. And Castiel finds himself thinking, that the day Dean spoke his name for the very first time, he was lost.

Watching Dean move, Castiel only makes himself ensured of his conclusion. Dean is all rush, all movement. Half-sobered by fear and half-drunk with adrenaline. Between the corridors, directions, ingredients,  dirty, blue-lit walls and shelves, so urgently he tries to find the answers for the questions his mind is too afraid to ask. He rushes so much he almost runs, but his anxiety catches up without a flaw. Very soon the thin wall of separation from real issues, its role played by unaware Sam, ceases to exist as the young Winchester goes off to get the blood.

Castiel gathers the courage because he knows he might not get such a chance ever again.

“Dean?” he asks shyly, perhaps even for the permission to just dare to remind the man of his undeserved and filthy presence next to him in this cold place that has taken them so far apart. He swallows thickly, a motion too human to be God’s, but at this point, he’s not a God. He’s a sacrilege. He always was. And always will be. He is inherently wrong even as he does good, it seems. Actually, it turns out. He is afraid Dean will not grace him with his attention, but he does. He turns around too quickly to pass for calmness. Dean speaks too fast as he asks back.

“What? You need something?”

Castiel’s resigned gaze is fixed steadily on him. He’s mesmerized and grateful. Somehow once again he is able to love and admire him purely, once more Dean is beautiful, ethereal, untouchable. Dean is his Dean. His masterpiece, his bond, his warmth, his conscience, his miraculous nebula of everything just and revered, one that grown out of a monkey, the fish that came out of the ocean which in the past, eons ago, he had spent watching with curiosity, awaiting the inexplicable. And here it is, his inexplicable. The sin and the glory, the everything. Because by everything, Castiel means mostly Dean.  But by Dean, each time he looks at him, and while he can, he does not look away anymore, he mostly means regret. Regret is all that is left. Regret is the wave brushing Dean’s sacred feet just as water does to the shore and returns to Castiel, the very sea of regret. Regret is what he became, Castiel decides sternly.

“No,” he exhales, his chest crushed by the weight of the mere fact that he dared to speak. His eyes are pleading, begging for understanding. For a final word. For a permission to leave in peace. He doesn’t know anymore. Either works, neither works, he really doesn’t know, he really can’t tell. His temple and the corners of his mouth are crying before his eyes gather enough water to let it free. “I feel regret,” he says after a few pained sighs, after withholding a sob, this one fact apparently being the only thing he knows for sure. “About you,” he adds first, because this is priority, this is the most important, this is something Dean has to know one way or the other. “And what I did to Sam,” he clarifies.

Dean’s face is curled in a grimace of sheer confusion. He wanted to get away from this conversation, but here it is, gripping him tight and he does not even know what happens to him later on. Neither Dean wants to find out. He looks down,  and Castiel fails to decipher whether it is sadness or anger.

“Yeah, well, you should,” Dean retorts, turns away once more and urgently proceeds to move the piece of furniture that has absolutely no point in changing its position.

“If there was time, if I was strong enough, I’d,” Castiel tries, still watching Dean cautiously. “I’d fix him now.” Getting no reaction, he sighs again, tries to regain his composure and adds, as if in an attempt to explain himself. His boldness of this moment, his reason to speak. “I just wanted to make amends before I die.”

Dean finally stops and sighs heavily, his body tenses slightly as he hears the word “die.” Apparently, he does not like it even more than he seems to be annoyed with the general idea of Castiel trying to talk with him. Castiel is not sure if it is a good or a bad sign. Besides, all of the signs he has seen in his life had mislead him, either way.

“Okay,” Dean says and slams his hands against his thighs in defeat.

Castiel blinks a few times and breathes heavily before he is able to speak.

“Is it working?”

“Does it make you feel better?” Dean asks and looks back at him at last, indicating that perhaps, he might be interested in knowing the answer.

“No,” Castiel admits. Dean blinks and nods. He gets it. He expects it, probably. He just doesn’t know what to say to that, most likely. Castiel does not blame him. He would not know either. At this point, he doesn’t blame Dean for anything, frankly speaking.

“You?” he asks and his chest aches twice as much as the word meekly escapes his lips.

“Not a bit,” Dean says, What else could he say. There are so many things he could say instead, Castiel ponders. But he does not deserve a single one of them, he decides.

He sighs painfully nonetheless. He can’t help this. The world crumbled beneath his fingers, his hope collapses before his eyes, he’s dying and all he sees is a hurt, troubled and disappointed face of the very person he has sworn to heal, soothe and make proud. And all he can do, all  that there’s left to do is to sigh. So he does. But it doesn’t help. He turns his head away slowly and he finds it agonizing to get Dean’s face out of his sight, but it’s over, he knows, and he does not wish to upset the man any further. He stares blankly at something. He does not even know what it is, he still sees Dean. He closes his eyes, then. But it’s Dean. He returns to staring at nothing, most likely the wall, but he’s unable to tell. It’s  Dean. And even if he would claw his eyes, his brain, and his grace, out, he would still see Dean, Castiel supposes. If he were a pile of yellow bones, nothing else, he would still tell the stories of his Dean, a vivid, focused picture of the man tattooed onto the leftovers of his marrow. Castiel is Dean’s legacy, albeit a failed one, he decides.  Then again, he thinks, whenever he is meant to be an example of anything, he always ends up being a failed one.

Bobby tries to comfort him. It’s another thing he doesn’t deserve.

“Hang in there,” he says, patting him on the shoulder. But Castiel drowns even deeper in misery. He glances in Dean’s direction, but Dean is motionless like a statue and his eyes are transfixed on the dirty, unrevealing wall. He is the soldier that guards Eden after the banishment of the first people. He is unruffled by their cries, he is a stone, a frozen ocean. He is ice. “Just a couple of minutes,” the old man assures, but it doesn’t do Castiel any better. A couple of minutes naked and vulnerable in the ice is still too long to survive. He returns to watching the wall and he thinks of ice. He can hear the man asking about Sam and he registers Dean’s footsteps indicating that he has just left to search for his brother. Apparently, it is not easy for the ice as well to stand this close to the fire. Even if it only burns with despair. What Castiel can’t register, however, is that before taking his leave, Dean looks at him once more with worry and the concern in his eyes seems to be even more than lukewarm. Castiel doesn’t know this and he continues to die convinced that he shall perish swallowed by the ice yet before Purgatory might get the chance to rip him open.

He is, of course, wrong. The leviathan do make sure their host shall not die before they decide to shred his golden thread into pieces. And, if, by anything, they want him to die in a fire. A fire as infinite as their hunger for the flesh.

*

Dean paints the sigils and somebody helps Castiel get up. He’s too dizzy to think clearly, but he is almost sure it’s Bobby. He still doesn’t know where Sam is. He is concerned but helpless. He can only hope Dean finds him soon. He can only hope many things related to Dean. And deep inside, he still does.

Bobby guides him to the painted wall and Dean rushes to get out of the way. Castiel finds it impossible to maintain balance. He keeps swaying as if he’s drunk, his face is too exhausted to have an expression. He can hear Bobby begin to recite the incantation and every single word is a knife to his chest, a memory of where each one word had lead to. Nine words in, Castiel collapses. Dean runs to him, his own legs unexpectedly also weak. Dean helps him stand up again. His careful grip is something Castiel is going to cherish until he dies. Castiel stares at the bloody sigils and thinks that they mock them both. Dean lets go. As the paint cracks open with unholy fire, Castiel decides to turn away for the last time. He looks at Dean and Dean is truly, utterly in every inch, beautiful. And in every inch undeserved. Castiel mourns the loss of the sight, of that rough voice, of that peculiar humor, of that spectacular soul and that most fierce heart. He mourns the fact that a wordless fear is cutting Dean’s mouth and watery eyes open. He mourns everything but himself.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” And he is. There is nothing more true he could say. Or maybe there is.

He turns around slowly to face his demise. For a moment, he contemplates saying something more. In the end he only opens his mouth to do it, but doesn’t. It is too late now. If there ever was a time for them to have it said or heard, it is certainly not now.

_You were everything._

It remains unspoken. Dean is everything, everything so much Castiel is ashamed to say. Ashamed cause it’s too much, it has always been. And ashamed because Castiel is not worthy to cradle this everything in his destructive hands. He can only beg the stars that they would say to Dean, in his name, _you are everything_ every night. That the land on which he walks will murmur it to him with his every step and the water that he drinks will repeat it to him with every drop he swallows. So Castiel hopes that maybe one day Dean Winchester will understand that he was loved. And that it melts the ice Castiel thinks he turned Dean into.

*

Love is what tears Castiel apart. And he earnestly opens himself up to the death that comes to end him. The might rushes out of him in a roaring wave and on its way sucks out of him the power that was inherently his. He can feel that what he gives back is far, far less than what he had taken in the first place. It had all drained away so fast. It was a lie – the godhood, ergo it was also a lie – the power. That burning whiteness of the whole escaping light blinds him. He sees nothing, except of Dean. Dean, who stands stunned and terrified beyond any limits right behind him, Dean, who now wants to call it all off, but does not know how to do so. Dean, whose imagination cannot bear the painful sight. But it’s a pain that Castiel doesn’t see. Castiel, as he dies,  keeps reliving the memory of a cold, stern face and angry eyes turned away from him.

Castiel’s heart had always too much, hurt always too much, was always too much. Now it gives away too much. It stops. He falls.

He’s swallowed by darkness.

His grace had been a sequoia. His grace is a thin veil. He does not shine, he does not sing. He is barely lit, he barely hums. His light is an alarm and his hushed song is a cry of pain and panic.  The leviathan swim over and inside of him, they choke him, stain him, fill him, as they chant.

_We just couldn’t let go. You’re so warm. We like the heat._

Castiel tries to struggle, but he soaks with their ooze like gauze. They bask in his light just like magnificent serpents do in the desserts. They present their teeth, all of them, ready and countless. They murmur with a desecrating awe as they take away his warmth.

 _You’ve said he is ice_ , they muse, _we’ve heard,_ they tell Castiel and he shudders.

He can feel warmth of skin on his hand, some benign pressure on his chest. He can hear the one voice that steadies him and puts into a storm at once. He does not know what it speaks to him, but it reassures him all the same. It’s a home that keeps calling, no matter the words.

“No,” Castiel tries. “He is not ice. He is a home.”

They laugh, their voices a mockery of affection.

_We’re going to warm him up. Warm him up until he melts, until he sinks hot into this skin in which we crawl. If he is what you have found holy, we shall have the Eucharist. Feast of blood and flesh through your rotting sainthood._

Castiel tries so hard to resurface, his entity an enraged sea of terror and wrath. He tries to lash back, he tries to save Dean, but he is only a gauze fighting the wild wind. Castiel cries as he tears himself apart, struggling to reach up, thinking of getting back home.

 _If he is your home_ , they chime, _we’re going to break in, light his fire and burn him down through his own fireplace. He shall become smoke, he’ll turn into dust just like humans do, for this is all they are. This is all they’re made._

“No,” Castiel protests and fights back even harder, all to no avail.

_We will bathe you in his soot. And you will eat his ashes like sand._

He groans as he beams with light for the very last time, he cuts through them with his broken wings as he screams, mad and raging, repeating a prayer, a mantra,  something that makes sense to him only.

“You’ll never get him to burn for you and you will never get to burn him!”

*

Castiel inhales once again for the first time in what seems to be decades. Air is too heavy to swallow. Sharp pain strikes through his eyes. He is blinded by the raw light, he is blinded by Dean’s raw, telling face. Stunned and electrocuted by the shakiness and panic in Dean’s voice.

“Ca-aas?” he hears him call out, a too long uneven syllable, a howl of the wind on a bumpy road marked with sharp rocks and broken glass. Dean crouches down next to him instantly, the pain on his face and its innocent beauty burn him even more. “Hey, hey!” Dean tries to bring him back into focus. But it is all a blur.

 He remembers being almost dead and he is terrified that he isn’t. His mind returns to the wicked words of the serpents, he remains aware of their promise. He tries to look for them in his insides but he fails to find them. The general area of his stomach is vacant. But if it is God saving him once more for a reason he can’t still understand – he does not know. All he has is confusion.

“Okay,” Dean soothes him as he groans in pain. He takes him by the hand, holds it firmly and, along with Bobby, helps him get up. “All right,” he assures Castiel’s weak body through a whisper.

“That was unpleasant,” he comments his past experience. Dean’s hand lingers on his arm for a long moment after he got up. He finds it a warm, pleasant weight to feel on himself, but he does not allow himself to dwell upon it. “I’m alive,” he says with a voice still sore from screaming at the leviathan. He looks behind him unsurely, having the suspicion buried inside of him that he might find them right there in that empty space if around his abdomen they are nowhere to be found. The fear does not leave him. “I’m astonished,” he admits. And upon this Dean blinks, his eyebrows form a confused, hurt frown. His entire face is all-believing and non-believing at the same time, contorted with a one great _how?_.

“Thank you. Both of you,” Castiel says and turns to face each one of them.

Dean’s lips part slightly as if to say something, but his eyes are still hypnotized either by Castiel’s very sight or by his recent resurrection. And not a word manages to come out. So Dean just nods.

“We were mostly just trying to save the world,” Bobby offers because something just has to be said in return. And somehow, even with the given implication, Castiel feels better with this than with Dean’s eerie silence.

“I’m ashamed,” he says and looks at them with the pleading eyes of a starving dog that gets beaten nearly to death. “I really overreached.”

“You think?” Dean finally says, but his voice is less of an accusation than Castiel expected it to be. A cold shower, maybe. But certainly not ice.

“I’m gonna redeem myself to you,” Castiel promises.

“All right, well, one thing at a time. Come on.” But Dean’s head is too heavy right now. He does not dismiss it entirely, though and this gives the Angel a thin thread of hope for redemption. “Let’s get you out of here. Come on.”

Castiel stops him.

“I mean it, Dean,” he assures. And Dean nods, at least allowing his efforts.

“Okay. All right. But let’s go find Sam, okay?”

Castiel freezes abruptly and entirely. Like a thunder the hiss strikes him and he knows that none of this is, nor ever again will be, okay. He’s found them. They went to his head. This is over. They feed on his mind and suck out his Grace, he’s losing control.

“You need to run!” he pushes them away violently but he can see they understand nothing. At this rate, they won’t make it. Castiel cannot allow this to happen. He knows how it would end. “I can’t hold them back!” he barely hisses through gritted teeth as he curls in pain when the leviathan bite and tear their way through his core.

“Hold who back?!”

“They held on inside of me,” he tries to explain even though he knows he already is out of time. “Dean!” he cries out, using the beloved name as another way of saying he’s sorry, of begging for forgiveness. “They’re so strong!” Each word to be spoken is a new jolt of pain, every attempt to strain the inevitable is a whole new form of dying, every attempt of self-control a horrible failure. But he fixes his desperate eyes on Dean. Dean has to be the last thing he sees.

“Who the hell-“ Bobby starts but he gets sharply cut off.

“Leviathan!” Castiel roars. “I can’t fight them! Run!” he tries to save them once more and it is the last thing he knows he does.

Dean however remains stubborn, ignores the warning and chooses to stay and painfully watch him writhe in convulsions, perhaps as a matter of shock, perhaps a partially conscious decision of a captain to sink with his ship. Either way, Dean sends Bobby off and stays. And it’s the usual thing for him to do, Castiel notices as awareness drains away from him, for every time he had left, Dean always chose to stay. It’s happening once more. It’s a shame. He wishes he could change this, the past, himself, anything, It’s a painful thought. And  it is Castiel’s last one.

*

The Angel’s pained cry, instead of being a final warning,  is an announcement of an arrival. A long awaited one.

The ancient serpents crush him into dust, his grace nothing more than a dimmed light of the tiny, insignificant dots that the stars are on a night, endless sky. They have filled his every frequency, distorted every note of his holy song, choked all of his voice and eclipsed all of his light. They linger in every muscle, every nerve, every bone, every vein and every cell. And the torn, hopeless and dying remains of Castiel only stick to the ooze, to the teeth, to the tentacles’ snake-like skin like glitter, like dandelion dust, nothing more. It is done.

They came back home. And they think, they have made Dean wait far too long for this day. And they wonder, if Castiel still had those peculiar eyes left in his pockets, for they wish to give their tribute-bride a gift to say hello.

They think Dean is perhaps a bit like the wife of the man called Lot. They think Dean chose to look back on his burning past for the last time and this is what got him stunned. They think this is what will get him dead. They think a new Sodom and Gomorrah is what they will give him, first.

“Too late,” they cheerfully announce.

“Cas?” they hear him trying to ask. And they think that the question is wrong. They think Dean is silly. They think Dean would taste like cherries. They think cherries are silly, too. They think they want some of that now.

They reach out for Dean, grab him abruptly and pull him closer into their needy orbit.

“Cas is, hm, he’s gone,” they cheer. “He’s dead,” they explain in a low, predatory voice, leaning even closer into his space, inhaling his scent, planning, already seeing the things they are going to do to him. Something itches them. “We run the show now,” they smile at him obscenely and before throwing him away to have him spread and ready for their teeth and touch, they pull him in as close as they can and their skins almost brush. They did not really plan throwing him away just yet, but they do. They do not know why. Maybe it’s the peculiar itch. Maybe they want more time. They either way don’t care. They don’t think they have to.

Dean is lying flat on his stomach, legs slightly parted and they are satisfied with the result. “Ah!” they exclaim content with that particular sight.

With great excitement they throw the other, boring man out of their way. They slowly return their gaze to their delicious, long awaited prey and they subtly, slightly bite their vessel’s lip. Their teeth and loins quiver eagerly. They think their little doll has a stunning charm. They think they like it a lot, if not too much, when he’s afraid, when it hurts him to breathe, when he stares at them from underneath, when goose bumps show on his soft, aromatic and inviting skin. They shudder with pleasure as they stretch their neck to get the itching away. But as their arousal grows – it grows as well. Black lines, thin cracks appear on their host. They think maybe they’re too excited, too big, too strong, too many. At this moment they find themselves too happy to feel bothered. First things first, they think.

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun,” they purr as they threaten Dean with a smile so wide they hardly manage not to show their teeth. Not everything at once, they think.

The unexpected marks spread further and wider with every heavy, filthy word they spoke, but they laugh in a low, ribald, dangerous tone. They do, however, rise their  borrowed eyebrows, suspicious and intrigued. They make their slow, predatory steps towards Dean. He tries to get up and calls for his friend. They notice the old man is not dead – while he should be. They think something keeps stopping them from manifesting their power. And they think they already know what is going on. They have gotten themselves tainted, flawed by that shattered angelic Grace splattered all over the vessel. It tries to weaken them, attempts to fight back like a cut off head of a snake. The itch and those lines are the dead thing’s venom. They look down at the vessel’s hand, displeased. They think it is unfortunate. They were very fond of this one, they were thrilled to know how much discomfort this form of contact would bring Dean before they allow him to die. But they think this stained vessel keeps making them restrain themselves, stops them from touching and killing properly. They think they cannot afford to have a weakness, even if it is as cherry-sweet as Dean.

“How many of you ass-clowns are there?” they hear him mutter and they kind of want to stay. They want to show him how many and how much they are. “Hundred? More?” and they wish he would have stopped asking because it urges them too hard to let him see.

 But with every next second they spend near him, the filthy Grace releases more and more of its peculiar toxin into their system and into their current corpse, ruining it to the point that it heavily leaks and fails to function. They think they are very, very angry. They think it was a calculated revenge from beyond the grave to make them allergic to their deserved prize.

“Your vessel’s gonna explode, ain’t it? Wouldn’t do anything too strenuous.” They give him an annoyed look. “In fact, I’d call it a day, head on home, huh?” they hear him try to act bravely. They think Dean is funny. They think Dean is so funny they want to slice his chest open and see where that hilarious attitude goes from there, but they also think that in their current state they won’t be able not only to have their way with him, but also to perform an act just as simple as that.

“We’ll be back for you,” they flat out promise Dean, eyeing him hungrily for the last time and they can see he knows he should be afraid, for he swallows too thickly, too heavily. They like it. They like it how he swallows. They like how everything inside of his throat moves. They want to see how it works. They want to feel it beneath their fingers and their teeth. But they make their leave for the time being instead.

Somewhat confused by what they want and where their traitorous legs lead them to despite their will, they make small, awkward, cautious steps. If they want to function, they try to think, they need to get rid out of this corpse. But they think all the same, they don’t really want to go. Then they think, as if to console themselves after their temporary loss, they will gather thousands upon thousands of vessels and in each and every single one of them they will have Dean as their own. Still, they think, frowning and angry, they want to stay like this, right now. But Castiel’s poisonous legs take them further and further away from Dean. Away from what they think that is rightfully theirs. They wish they could have stayed. They should have stayed, they think. But in the end – they don’t.

They can smell the water. Urgently, they try to reach the source of that smell. Water is what they need. It is what sets them free and makes them pure. Once they see it, they step into its depths and cover themselves whole as if they were souls about to be baptized. They dispose of what made them imperfect and leave it behind as if they were shedding old skin, and the last obstacle that keeps them away from glory is no longer there. It is drowned, lost somewhere within the water.  They get themselves clean, free and many. They overtake the water. It darkens from their terrifying power. They dissolve and become the water. Water becomes them in return. Water is  one, yet uncountable, they are one, yet uncountable. But where water is life, they are death. Where water satiates and ends all thirst, they are insatiable and they demand more – never full, never satisfied, never  willing nor able to stop. Water flows and they flow. Reborn anew, purified and free, they do not think of Dean anymore. They think they have washed off that stain off their thoughts and teeth. They decide they have left it behind. They go off to acquire more power. They go off to feed. They go off to find new homes.

The past, they think, is made of waste so they tore it out like garbage, like mold, left it alone to decompose. Past is what slows a good beast down and kills it.

And they? They are the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from:  
> The White Stripes' "Seven nation army"


	6. VI.

**VI**

**“Leaving me stranded all in love on my own”**

Dean swiftly breaks into the old, inconspicuous  red Honda civic and starts its engine. Without giving it a single thought, he turns the radio on, as if he were on autopilot. Right  away, he can hear Barbra Streisand whining out very unfortunate words with the timbre of her voice and Dean tries to ignore them, but he knows this song too well, he subconsciously agrees with what it already said and he knows where it’s going. Half way through her singing about turning away from the wall, stumbling and falling, Dean treats the hellish device with the entirety of his raging fist and for a moment he remains bent in half, his head low between his knees.

Bobby doesn’t let him drive and shoves his ass into the back seat. Dean protests, albeit too weakly to even consider it a proper façade. In Dean Winchester’s book of pathetic attempts, this one takes the prize. He knows it so he scolds himself for the failure.

*

He remembers this place. He remembers it so well because of one particular reason. He hasn’t had a dream as peaceful as that one for too many years to count. He received it as a gift, as a serene place of secret, intimate meetings of a grace and a soul. Cas gave it to him. The pier, the quiet water, the green entity of the richly scented fresh flora, even the fishing pole and the fish in the lake. And the sky that made it so blue, too. It was all from Cas. Because Cas knew he needed exactly that, that it would be the perfect thing to soothe his mind in a break from Hell, his own bloodshed, from the memory of that hellhound’s invisible, sharp canines, from the visions of his stabbed dead brother, dead father and his still living aura of disappointment that continued to linger as a dark, ripe cloud above his head, threatening to rain every time he closed his eyes. Dean had that on a nightly basis. He supposes that’s probably why he opts to sleep four hours instead of seven or eight. That’s half the opportunity for all of this shit to get a grip on him. He’s seen enough already.

And then there was Cas. He gave him a fishing pole and a lake amongst the woods and Dean didn’t even have to ask for it. Dean asked for many other things. He received most of them. So when Cas dropped by to his head every now and then, he didn’t feel bothered. He owed the poor guy at least that much – a sincere talk was something he could offer in exchange. And Cas’s problems? Dean’s been there. He could relate. He could offer consolation in exchange for the one he was given.

When Cas visited him, overall, Dean was finding himself happy, in a way. Even if it was about bad news – and to be honest, nine times out of ten it was – he was grateful for the sincere trust that Cas put into him despite his daily flaws and his hands still soaked with hellish blood and human bowels.

 

But at some point, those visits had stopped.

Maybe because Cas came down to Earth a bit of more permanently and if they wanted to talk – they could do so in person. And they have.

Maybe because he returned to Heaven and the new holy war screwed up with his head in more ways than expected and Cas shut himself  up before him and became absent and solemn just like his father after Mary’s death, even though Dean tried to reach him and pried him to open up and cried for him and begged him and threatened him with myriads of impossible things and drank until sleep would find him and took the memory of his face out of Dean’s eyes. But it did not matter. Dean was no longer receiving most of the things he asked for. The said things being very simple, simpler than asking to stop the Apocalypse and stab half of the family in the throat. Things being one thing, really: come down here, let’s talk.

For whatever reason, despite of all the best intentions, when Cas came down, they didn’t talk. They fought. The last time he came down, they didn’t even fight – he just died.

So either way, it had stopped.

But the lake – it had stayed.

Except that, there is not a drop of the former serenity left in its waters. Dean can tell. Something has contaminated it deeply. Dean is afraid of it.  The entire space is mute and static, giving him nothing less than the vibes of a prelude to a screamer he sadly came across in the past. He wants to leave this place before he can see what had happened to it, but he can’t escape his own head. Something is clutching him firmly and clearly doesn’t want him to wake up.

If he is still sleeping, that is. Everything seems wrong, even something as basic like the feeling of being asleep. One thing he knows for certain – his only remaining fortress is already lost, poisoned and taken over by the enemy.

*

For starters, he is surrounded by night. And Cas never, _never_ arrived there in night time. He made the damn place to be forever lit by the sun. It was meant to be a safe place of his. One where Dean could see and understand everything. Whatever brought the night to the spot that should not be touched by darkness, wasn’t Cas. And it surely isn’t Dean, either. At least he thinks so. He always kept this shrine free of any change. No matter what. Always. The only change the place ever took was that each time Cas was leaving the dream – the Sun hid behind a thick set of clouds. Everything went a little bit paler, a little bit darker. But not like this, never this much. Not once. Now, the sky above him is as black as if it were a void, a creeping, sucking hole. The sky is cut out of the picture. It’s not just dark. It’s missing.

Somehow it isn’t even the creepiest part. There’s so much more to the offending changes placed into the little altar of his sentimental memory. Dean doesn’t notice them all at once. The details manifest themselves gradually as if the damaged environment was aware of the fear-induced voyeurism of his eyes. The smell hits him first. The water reeks of old age and death, its scent implies that it is barren with decay instead of life. The dead fish emerge with their bellies up and their lifeless eyes fixed up on Dean. Not all at once. They show up a row after a row, in a straight line, in a pattern, in order – like soldiers. Dean doesn’t know how, but he’s certain they are beckoning him to come in. He shakes his head and tells them no. He throws away his pole, kicks away the bucket with the bait and he realizes it is full of rotting meat and vermin. The smell of that flesh, though, is distorted, tainted, but Dean knows, really knows, he recalls it from somewhere. Remembers it from the past, from the times when what is now dead was still alive, breathing, human. Or not exactly human. Dean’s mind lingers into the scent, tries to find a match. It’s everywhere – on the tip of his tongue, on the back of his skull, beneath his fingernails, on his lashes, in his nostrils – on every inch imprinted. It calls too loud to be remembered, demands to be given a name. Dean stares into the depths of the water and he finds it. It was Cas, wasn’t it.

The still standing water does not answer that, neither does the legion of fish. It speaks to him, though, it chants. The zephyr makes the waters sway through its waves as if it had the luring curves of a mysterious dancer with a hidden face. The call of the liquid is the call of the body. It opens wide, spreads, showing its ready nethers and tells him to come.

But Dean keeps clutching tightly the curled-up ball of fabric he’s cradling in his hands. And he still says no.

It asks again.

Dean tells it to fuck itself. To fuck, fuck, fuck. He curses and hisses at it but it won’t stop trying. Finally, he spits that he asked for none of this. Somehow, it insults the lake greatly because it begins to boil. A shape gets out of it slowly, dozens of shapes. He can only see the outlines, it’s too dark and whatever it is, it quickly merges with the darkness of the lacking sky. 

He’s under the water, held by its tight grip. He’s embraced. A thing with no eyes, with no face, stares deeply into his lungs and heart, his eyes. A thing with no voice sings to calm him down. A thing with no fingers strokes whatever flesh it can find. Dean is terrified, mesmerized and soothed. He does not know how, he does not when, but his hands find the way to the entity and they place the cloth upon it. Even though Dean feels that it is familiar, that it fits, the worn-out trench coat is too small to contain the thing that hardly fits into the lake.

 

Startled, it thanks him without words. Tugs him closer, piously studying his features while slowly while maneuvering him in. And as the distance shortens up between them, it becomes more and more convinced that it is merely taking what is already belonging to it. It takes him into its care, this abandoned, troubled, shaken little thing. But the closer it has him within its grasp, the stronger his scent gets. And it gets hungry in consequence. It feels confused. And it is not used to feeling confused. Not used to having an opinion of its own. Not used to being so alone. There’s only it and the brittle sack of  bones and blood. Too small to feel it without crushing it, too small to devour it and be satiated, too stunning to immediately destroy. And sadly, bitterly, he is the only thing around. If it eats him, his closed green eyes, his shivering lids and his lashes, his palms, his chest and his thighs, there will be nothing left for it to have. It will be alone. Alone in ways it was not designed to be.

It is so terribly angry. Not knowing what to do, it tries to fix itself to be able to reach even closer. It vaguely remembers it had a way to achieve that once, so it returns to that state. It doesn’t like it anymore, though. Now it is too empty, too hollow. It’s too alienating, too silent. It does not want to be alienated. It does not want silence. It does not know what it wants, but it knows what it doesn’t. So it takes what it has.

It entwines him as tight as it can and bursts out with him above the surface.

*

Dean opens his eyes and he can see again. He’s got no idea why, but the first thing he registers himself doing is struggling his hands free and rearranging the coat so it would cover more. In this weak, cold light, the white, raw skin keeps stinging his sight to the point he actually thinks his eyes might bleed. He puts the coat like a cape on those shoulders and when it’s done, the sky above his head bursts out with flames of brightness. Dean looks up to see why and he notices a ball of light, of fire falling from above, right into them. Dean thinks it’s a comet. He thinks they’re dead. Thinks it doesn’t matter. He stares back at it and he notices that it too, is gazing upwards. Dean takes the wet, short streaks of Cas’s hair off its cold forehead. He wants to ask something, but he can tell it is too busy looking up to meet his eyes.

Dean watches the white fires hit it. It doesn’t die, it even takes the nearly blinding light with some kind of readiness, or at least so Dean thinks, because it is the last thing he sees before the power of the light forces him to close his eyes.

When he opens them again he’s not entirely sure if he does it because he hears a sigh or because he can feel its stare lingering on his face for a moment already too long to be considered comfortable and meaningless. So he goes with both.

 Dean doesn’t know what he expected to see, but the subtle change in the view he finds rather eerie to say the very least. It doesn’t look that weak, vulnerable anymore, nor that pale. Not that it was either of those things, objectively. It just looks stronger, calmer and more confident in comparison to the moment before the impact. Which is rather peculiar in Dean’s opinion, cause obviously it was incomparably bigger and visually powerful underwater. Now, it radiates something familiar, a soft hum his brain somehow recalls. This is manageable, Dean thinks. He’s not sure how, as of yet, but he supposes that this he can explain.

But there’s feathers, some ruffled, some burned, some nearly intact, standing out of that mouth. Now this, Dean decides, he can’t explain.

“You ate it?” he asks awkwardly, not even knowing if he’s referring precisely to the light, the feathers or something else he knows it’s there but he can’t even put his finger on it. But that’s the only question his brain offers him so he goes with it.

It squints at him as it slowly chews on the remains. Takes one moderately undamaged feather out and loudly swallows the rest. And Dean thinks that nothing should be able to effortlessly dig in a mouthful of thick feathers in one swift gulp. At least not when it tries to wear a human face.

“Now I have,” it solemnly answers as it rises the palm with the last feather to examine it. The coat begins to slide off its shoulders because of that sudden movement and Dean looks away abruptly, ashamed.

But he’s not allowed to do that for long. The feather is now stroking his cheek, the hand that wields it clearly beckoning him to return the stare.

“Dean,” It calls him in a long, low syllable and he reacts to the sound on instinct, locks his eyes with those eyes. The eyes are the same and the voice is the same but it feels wrong. There’s a false note to the sound and the eyes are colored out of contour. It’s unsettling. “I think we’ve all fallen today, Dean,” it says as it puts the tip of the feather into the water. “He thought too much of his feather headdress. You thought too much of your own crown” it goes on as it slowly strokes all over his face with that feather, writing an invisible sign that Dean does not know how to read. “Looking away won’t undo what your prides have created.” It takes a fistful of water into its palm and spills it onto Dean’s head. “But I baptize you. I baptize you to become my name.”

“Cas-” Dean starts, terrified, already quite convinced that whatever he’s addressing – he’s doing it wrong, but he goes with it nonetheless because there isn’t any other word that would fit that face.

“No,” it hisses furiously before he can say anything else.  It grabs his hand, forces it down the water and places it on its own head, leaning into the touch. “No,” it repeats firmly, but without the former aggression. “Let me in.”

“What the fuck do you want me to do?” Dean asks hoarsely, trying to get his hand free but the grip on his wrist is too strong. His joints curse at him as he writhes to slip it out.

“Baptize me.”

“Why?”

“To let me in.”

“I don’t want you in.”

“No, you don’t want me out.” Dean Winchester snorts at those words. Snorts also at himself because the word are neither entirely true nor entirely false. There are things he wants in and there are things he wants out. This, though, is not the correct combination. But this is the only one he has.

“You can say all you want, Dean,” it murmurs with its wet lips brushing over the sensitive inside of his palm. “But you have already placed the proof of your guilt on my shoulders. You don’t want to be alone and you failed to leave me to my solitude. From your loins I was carved and born and in your loins I’ll have to sleep.”

“What are you,” he mutters through gritted teeth. And he regrets this right away because he recalls throwing this question at that face once and he earnestly hates the entire universe for having to do so again. His own mouth just mocked the ever loving shit out of him.

“I’m the… one you’ve cast into perdition.” The word “one” comes out shaky, bitter, hurtful as if it cut its throat when spoken. Dean is even more pissed because slipping something accidentally is one thing, but making this pain into a game that is played by two is a whole new level of uncalled for rudeness.

Upon hearing the twisted blasphemy on one of his most fierce memories, the word thoughtlessly and aimlessly leaves Dean’s lips before he can stop it, he is not even aware of saying it until he hears it echo in his ears.

“Cas…” And honestly, he’s got no idea what is meant to go afterwards.

“No!” it moans woefully, bites lightly into the flesh of his palm and sucks the tiny wound. “No, no…” It cries weakly, hurtfully.

“Then no it is,” Dean finally states, even more enraged, disgusted with that sort of touch and within one swift move, he takes off the coat off its shoulders and reclaims it.

It purrs until its voice becomes a chuckle and shows Dean many, many teeth in a foreign, terrifying smile, one which Dean can feel breeze between his smallest bones. Right afterwards, it sighs heavily. And it confuses Dean even more.

“Have you planned that?” he asks and motions at the trench coat.

“I have planned that,” it confirms.

“But it didn’t pan out, now did it, you lousy son of a bitch?”

“I have expected more of the outcome,” it admits.

“More of what.”

“More of freedom, less of you. But there is not much of freedom and there is still the same amount of you.”

This is Dean’s time to squint.

“Care to elaborate what an amount of me is?”

“You gripped tight.”

“You better put those words back where they came from,” Dean warns.

“You should have not ruffled the waters, if you did not want anything to leak, Dean.”

“So now what. I’m fucked and apparently so are you, is that it?”

It weights Dean’s words on its tongue, considers them thoroughly. “Stop smiling like that. You’re getting the wrong ideas,” it hears him say. It cackles at him, both as a reaction and an answer. It had not been aware it was smiling. It feels almost bitterly amused with itself.

“If the wrong ideas are the case then I suppose I should figure my mishap out and you’ll dwell upon your problem until we meet again. Maybe you’ll start getting the right ones.”

“Is there anything I can do to not meet you again?”

It remains silent for a while and muses on the answer. It looks straight through his chest and it makes Dean want to vomit.

“Nothing you’re strong enough to do,” it tells him sincerely and it shakes its head softly, almost compassionately. “He had that in common with you, you know,” it adds as an afterthought. Judging from its tone, Dean deduces it’s most likely a sad one.

“Which is?”

It smiles at him wickedly. Compassion’s completely erased out of its features.

“You know it deep inside, Dean,” it says in a patronizing tone. “So you tell me.”

“Stop bullshitting your way through this one and just say it.”

Its smile only widens, there’s some kind of pathetic sympathy painted all over its face and just for that insult, Dean really wants to peel it off. Wants all of it under his fingernails, wants it merging with the pores of his skin, wants it to fill the thirsty riverbeds of his fingerprints. Wants it immediately and permanently. A second later, he wants none of this.

“Go to sleep, Dean,” it  easily reads the fire and the following change of thought off his face. Feeling somewhat exasperated, it sighs as it finally quite reluctantly takes its hand away from Dean’s wrist to place two fingers on his forehead.

“I am asleep, you stupid asshole.”

“Are you?” it asks Dean, and it grins hundreds of teeth in amusement.

It kisses his throat. And for a second, he chokes from shock. It can feel the living piece of art beneath his skin vibrate on its lips as Dean struggles for air. “I’ve heard you’re silly. I’ve heard right.” It goes on talking because it wants to feel this peculiar tingling for a moment more. “There’s this rumor, kind of a legend even, that you’re like cherries,” it whispers against his skin only to touch the spot with its mouth again. “About that and the rest I’ll have to find out alone,” it says equally to itself as it does to Dean, lost in thoughts, lost in once heard theories and myths conceived by its kin. “I suppose that it’s the only consolation prize that I get.”

He wakes up.

*

Dean blinks several times and takes his surroundings in with wild, startled eyes. He’s got no idea why were they closed in the first place, since a second ago he was standing by the reservoir. Now, he’s in the backseat of a car that is neither his Baby, nor Bobby’s truck. Through the window he can see it is bright outside. It doesn’t seem to him like a wee morning hour anymore, though. He notices he’s still clutching the wet trench coat and keeping it rested on his lap. His heart nearly stops. Why does he have the coat? Where did it come from? All the recent memories of the laboratory and the reservoir pour down on him: Cas dying, Cas getting up, nasty shits getting Cas, Cas dying, nasty shits getting kinky, nasty, kinky shits getting so turned on they get leaky, nasty, kinky, turned on, leaking shits getting angry and getting out, taking Cas with, and to wrap this one up – dead Cas dying yet again with his messy, dark hair disappearing in the water. One thing he knows for sure, none of this took place in this ‘whatever it is’ car. He’s fucking missing something. He’s missing a damn lot, apparently. In an instant, he becomes perfectly alert. He looks ahead and sees Bobby driving and Sammy taking the shotgun, slowly drifting off.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Almost ten in the morning,” Bobby tells him and squints at him in what Dean supposes is either concern or suspicion. “Why are you asking?”

It was shortly after four when they left, most likely. He does not even remember getting into the car clearly or where did this one even come from, to be honest. He’s got no idea why, but he’s blank about it. It’s less than a blur. That’s certainly new. And now, it seems that he had apparently lost almost six hours of his miserable life. Last time he slept that long was a whole different miserable life ago. It was when he’s had that white fucking picket fence which only stung him in his throat as if he swallowed needles. It was when he woke up each day in a pretty cage made of brass and raked the leaves like a guinea pig bedding. It was when Sam and Cas weren’t there and he was a nobody, nowhere. When he was a cardboard man playing house among real people that cried when he took them apart. None of that was really his. Even the hours of sleep were merely rented. He doubts he filled the papers for renting some beauty-sleep hours in this circumstances, though.

“Was I asleep?” he continues his inquiry, ignoring Bobby’s question completely for the time being.

He’s given silence for the answer. Dean keeps staring into the rear window intently and long enough to eventually bend Bobby’s will on the subject of not saying anything at all.

But the only thing he gets is a disturbing, “I damn hope you were.”

And no amount of “what the hell do you mean, Bobby?!” makes him extract anything more on the matter.

The last hour of the road back to Sioux Falls is a quiet one.

Dean touches his face. It’s wet. He wishes he knew why. His palm tastes like salt but it smells of staleness. And it feels tainted. Both his face and his hand. He reeks of everything but knows nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from:
> 
> Kings of Leon - "Closer"


	7. VII.

 

**VII**

**“When the morning cries and you don’t know why”**

His legs are somber, his legs are absent. There aren’t too many steps to make from where he is, and something tells him there aren’t too many steps to make from where he will inevitably end. His eyes are blind to every view, his ears are deaf to every sound, but his feet, as they proceed this march, hear the noise of bells ringing under the weight of his boots crushing sand and the ground cries out those flawless, unforgettable mournful notes, matching every sound with the line that whatever part of his brain fails or perhaps doesn’t even try to turn off.

So, even though Dean knows that it’s not the first time for a friend to die, the grass was greener. So, even though he should have gotten used to losing family, hell, Cas too, the light was brighter the last time. So, even though he tries to forget and go on, or just go on for that matter, since that face won’t go away with both having his eyes closed or having them open and it lingers, crawls deeper, the taste was sweeter, now it’s salty and he wants so much to recognize why. So, even though there are far too many things that by the law of unwritten testament and never worded sense of duty and vendetta, are his alone to take care of, he knows he’s left with nights of wonder that shall always turn against him in the end. So, even though he’s with friends surrounded, there are too little steps left to make through the yard, through the porch, his legs will stop, but the bells in his head won’t cut. So, even though he’s blankly empty, not knowing how he got here, invoking and chasing the lost hours in his mind all to no avail, there is this sight that attempts to lure him, calls back to him in a language he doesn’t understand, in a memory he doesn’t have, but there it is – the dawn mist glowing, the water flowing, the endless river.

And Dean wants to communicate. A goodbye, a tribute, a funeral song, a long-distance or a mating call – whatever it’s left to be, it hardly matters as long as it just is. He’s humming that song now, but his dully stern face alerts both Bobby and Sam that it’s something going on that Dean isn’t exactly aware of. Again.

*

Upon arriving at Bobby’s house, Dean and his brother are immediately forced to get a few hours of decent sleep. Sam doesn’t complain, with the exhaustion driving him blind he barely manages to pass out on the couch instead of the floor. Dean, chooses to argue on the subject because somehow sleep is the first thing and the last thing on his mind at once. Of one thing he’s certain though: he wants none.

“I thought you said I already had some sleep, Bobby. Or didn’t I?” he tries to push it again, but this time as well, remains unsuccessful.

He only receives a frown leaking with dismay. And Dean involuntarily shudders at his own association. He doesn’t like leaking anything, not anymore. Just doesn’t.

“Curled up in a crappy car for hours after barely making it out of the slaughterhouse is not the sort of rest that will allow any of you keep going. Apparently Dean, you’re the only one with a chance of your mind thinking anywhere near straight, and as it is crippling right now, you’re a shit of a use, boy.”

“Crippling how, exactly.”

Bobby sighs.

“Like how you idjit want to lash out at a fountain of black angry water without getting any kind of info first. You think those shits would put on a show on the road within the first five minutes? They’re just as pissed and confused as you, kid. They need to regroup and figure out a strategy, so do we.”

Dean frowns and groans without even registering it at first. He damn remembers how pissed they were. He remembers having quite a good idea as to why were they so disappointed about. He knows just fine what kind of fun they were onto. It’s a knowledge that does not have a traceable source, still it hangs a heavy cloud of stench among the hollow corridors between his bones and it makes him want to puke, take it all out. But it wouldn’t do anything, to be honest.  It sticks to every piece of tissue it can find and makes it soak with the irremovable taint. He hadn’t been touched, but the effect remains the same – he’s filthy and he’s got no idea how to clean that shit off. Mostly the sight of something with Cas’s face being a predator skank. Cas would have a different modus operandi, after all. Then again, considering the Meg shit that went once and how bossy he could be at times – maybe only a bit different, then. But still, it’s nothing like Cas when it’s not Cas – that definitely goes to the not sexy kind of throwing people around. Jesus, why is he even giving that shit an afterthought? He needs to change the subject, fast.

“Those are very temporary performance issues, Bobby. They said they’d come back.”

Bobby snarls at him in irritation.

“If you don’t give yourself a moment to get your head about this crap together, they won’t have to, cause you’ll come back for them first like a kamikaze princess.”

“This is bullshit,” Dean cuts and the narrowness of his swollen eyes is his final warning about taking any of this preposterous pep talk anywhere further.

He’s having none of this precisely because the more he gets to think of it, the more he begins to think it might be true at some point. He’s got no idea how to get revenge, but hell, he needs it.

“Dean, please,” Bobby exhales painfully in exasperation. “I’ll do the research for now. You go lie the hell down.”

“And what about Sam, huh? Someone’s got to keep an eye on him and his cage-TV reruns.”

“He’s already asleep. I can manage one of you like this just fine, but you and your woolen legs won’t be of any help to him or to me right now.”

“Come on, Bobby, we’re the same level of tired. What suddenly makes me so shitty and you so special?” as those words are being said, the older man is already shaking his head in disagreement and disbelief. He’s pretty damn sure Dean won’t be ready for any of this right now, but if there’s no other way to get to him, then be it.

“Loss,” he says as simply as he can.

“No,” Dean groans abruptly, turns away and leaves both the room and the conversation.

*

This is all bullshit, Dean tries to tell himself, but he is well aware that his legs are taking him to that red piece of shit civic from which he is about to retrieve the coat. If anything’s bullshit, it’s him. He was so damn angry with that asshole, it was so hard to spare him a word after everything they both have said and done. It all hurt so much and his wish to redeem himself hurt even more – because Dean didn’t know what to do with that, how to reply to that, and he still doesn’t know. Seeing Cas like that, swaying weakly on his fucking legs, all that blood, all that gut-penetrating despair in his eyes, Dean was so fucking angry, but at the same time – he wasn’t. He ended up being angry with himself for not knowing what the hell he even is. And here the problem is again, Dean notices bitterly as he holds the dirty trench coat in his arms and slowly marches with it to the garage in which his almost completely reborn Baby awaits. Dean doesn’t know why he’s doing this, but God forbid anyone saying shit about it, ever. No one’s got the right to say shit about it, about them, about that.

Whatever it is. Was. Whatever it fucking remained.

He opens up the trunk and carefully arranges some space for the cloth. He exhales painfully, sharply, feeling the air from his lungs ripping them apart slowly as it leaves his chest. He mutters down a prayer consisting out of a few stupid, stupid, stupid sons of a bitches, he then softly asks the coat to go fuck itself, but it doesn’t squint or frown at him in exchange, not a single gravel note falls on his unknowingly yearning ears. A sound does not come when he calls. Dean shuts the lid. Everything gets darker.

This isn’t a car, Dean muses bitterly, this is a mobile casket. Good, he suddenly finds himself thinking, and for the love of everything and nothing, he has no idea as to why would anything about this be good. He blinks once, twice and absentmindedly leaves the garage, trying to figure out what his fucking point is.

He lands his sorry ass on the porch and he stares at his palms – now empty, but even heavier by the lack of the trench coat in them. It’s still morning, but he supposes that it’s nine pm somewhere and that he needs a drink. So he returns to the house, trying to sneak into the kitchen without meeting Bobby on his path, but to no avail. He can feel the old man staring at him with a really piss off-inducing mix of scolding and compassion, but he tries to pretend he doesn’t notice any of this as he grabs the whiskey bottle and a glass from the counter. Oddly, it isn’t exactly the only thing he can sense here. It doesn’t make sense, though. From where he stands right now, there’s no way Bobby could have a way to continue observing him. It’s not like Bobby’s into staring, anyway. The man’s got his boundaries, after all. And this, this is staring. Staring coming from someone that sure as fuck is not in the kitchen. That’s nonsense, he tells himself.

There’s no way a ghost could sneak into the house with approximately seventy eight thousand times more protection than Vatican’s Saint Peter’s funhouse has. He’ll check the EMF later, just in case. He’s just tired, that’s all. He technically could take care of this nothing right away, since it’s better be safe than sorry, but he doesn’t want to startle Bobby or Sammy. They’ve got enough of shit on their backs right now. Besides, if he tells Bobby and it will happen to be nothing – it would only prove the old nag’s point and it’s just not gonna happen. Also, it isn’t all that creepy, Dean notices as he pours some of his special amber medicine down the glass with slightly shaking hands, it’s just that it scratches this unnamed sense of familiarity at the back of his head, and this would be slightly unsettling. Now that he thinks of it, there was a thing like this one quite recently. It was when he was about to tell Death to gank Cas – he recalls as at the same time the glass he is paying no attention to is already full and the whiskey is pouring out like a happy fucking fountain of liquid shit – and it was a very douchey thing to do to be frank, yeah – then again maybe he just wants to drink that much of that crap – but honestly, the feeling he’s had was exactly the same, for god’s sake the hairs on his neck respond in the same damn manner. And there was nothing there. Except for the pop-up Cas, maybe.

Fuck.

He grabs the glass viciously and tries to swallow whatever is there, his eyes wide, hands shaking like thin trees on a tempest. So he fails, choking on his thoughts, on the whiskey, on the entire universe altogether and he releases the glass with shatters itself on the floor with an alarming noise.

“Fuck!” Dean’s mouth goes off on autopilot, offering the possibly most precise commentary on everything that just transpired.

“Dean?” he can hear Bobby call from the room, but he doesn’t reply. He’s too busy trying to calculate what is worse: that Cas stared at him as if he was some very fuckable box of chicken nuggets or the fact that it’s happening again, but Mister Stalker here is dead and Angels don’t do ghosts anyway, so whatever it is – it’s impossible, it’s fake, it’s him. This is crazy. Maybe it’s Sam’s crazy and it just happens to be contagious. Maybe it’s the Croatoan getting to his dick. Dean blinks. Why would he even bring his dick, in any context, into this one, is a holy mystery. Something is very non-peachy in the state of Deanmark, he thinks, trying too hard to focus on the pun, but not its subject.

Why would he be thinking about Cas thinking about fucking him, anyway?

Dean catches his mind actually willing to figure out the answer to a question he obviously intended as rhetorical and sarcastic.

It’s only half past eleven am in Sioux Falls, South Dakota and he’s already done with the rest of his life.

He cleans up the mess because this is the only one he’s fucking able to and he storms out of the kitchen, telling Bobby that in the end he wins this one and that he in fact, finally is going to knock himself out for an hour or two cause he can’t even get a drink done right.

Bobby thinks that’s it’s actually a good thing he can’t but he doesn’t share the thought, he just nods, not really buying a pound of Dean’s horse shit.

When Dean reaches the bed, he aggressively smashes his face flat against the mattress and proceeds to cocoon himself to the point of nonexistence. He wants to shield himself from the false eyes, from his own head, from everything. He doesn’t want to be seen. Right before he drifts away into heavy slumber, he knows.

It caught up. A foreign weight sinks into the mattress beside him. The bedsprings don’t make a noise, but he can feel in his muscles and veins that sudden burden pulling him like an avalanche that takes everything with. He dares not to look behind, but the weak reflection coming from the window tells him the bed is otherwise than him – very empty. Maybe it is his mind, maybe it is the window or the mattress, but one thing is certain: something in this room is lying to him.

He awaits a blow or a touch or the death.

Nothing comes but the sleep.

*

The conversation is about Sam’s health, but Bobby can’t help glancing back at Dean every now and then. He knows that strain on a human face too well. He’s seen it too many times. He’s been there. Dean is contorted in a very distinct grimace that probably unknowingly so many widows happen to wear when they try to put up with the problems of their children but the burdens are suddenly too heavy to carry and they find themselves looking hopelessly for the support of the spouse that isn’t there. And in that moments they remember anew that the person is not and will not be there to help, to soothe, to keep them steady. But instead of breaking apart when it clearly needs to, the face always twists into something even more cold and falsely unmoved. Because of the child that needs a shield, a lie to believe – one that says that there still is a life worth living and a future to be had. Even if the mother already writes herself to the past and buries herself with her husband, she knows that her kid is supposed to have a future of its own.

Bobby knows because he spoke with far too many good women who chose to bury themselves alive. In their world, after all, there ain’t much of full families. There are always the ones lost and the ones left behind every hunter burial. Bobby isn’t even surprised he’s thinking about all of this while looking at Dean. If anything, he’s just more exasperated, because for crying out loud, this kid always has to take the lowest blows, don’t he. And damn, Bobby knows what Dean just took, he’s seen that, too. In Dean’s piss poor father, in his own mirror, in the wallpapers that Karen chose years ago. Dean’s face alone would make him think this, but after what came up in the car the last morning, it’s not something to be reconsidered, it’s a solid fact. But there’s always the new level of hell – there always is if a Winchester is involved, apparently – because, judging from that boy’s stubborn mouth – he still doesn’t know what they all already know. Dean never gets the whole truth in time. He’s so used to it that he’s not willing to give it to himself, either. This is gonna be really helpful, alright.

In the middle of the talk that neither of them is really handling, Sam looks away to his left. Startled, he and Dean follow. For a moment, as the realization hits them, the old man notices Dean’s façade nearly breaking. It’s worse that they both thought. And Bobby’s seen that exact sort of panic before.

“What – are you seeing him right now?” Dean asks.

Sam nods.

“You know he’s not real, right?”

But then Sam answers the question that was not intended to have an answer.

“He says the same thing about you,” Sam says. Dean looks up slowly, his eyes wide, his breath taken away. He’s struck exactly like how Bobby remembers Ellen was when Jo had told her for the first time she’s going to be a hunter. It’s not just one more nightmare. It’s the last one.

At this point, there is nothing left to be said.

“I’m going back to work.”

They all do, after that. But the work, for the time being, is playing pretend.

*

Sam is fixing guns and undoing guns. Besides Sam, the room is empty. Dean is pretty sure that the kid would argue on that one. He’s in the kitchen, mesmerized in watching him repeatedly do that and he feels held in place by the fear that it wakes up in him because, Jesus, he’s never seen Sammy broken down like that and he’s seen a lot of Sammy in his worsts. Bobby is with him, just as worried and also observing, since there was this unspoken agreement to leave his brother be after those final words. That’s not the only current bother, though. Once more, there’s something impossibly wrong with the picture – or rather – with his intuition, and he’s trying to find a safe spot in his environment. Something’s too close and he thinks it might want to lean in – a musky breeze that makes his insides stop functioning all at once for a moment. He moves away from the table. Dean retreats to set Sam’s GPS just in case and he doesn’t look up to face Bobby because he genuinely thinks he’s gonna see something next to him if he does. He wants to slap himself for being this stupid, so eventually he allows a glimpse of eye contact and of course, there’s nothing there besides Bobby. The only thing about Bobby, though, is that  something annoying in the man’s face alerts him that a quiet drink is the last thing they’re going to have. But Dean isn’t surprised. After all, Sam’s problem isn’t something that can last long without being discussed, even if it is the same lack of conclusion over and over again. And it’s just the two of them there left to talk, isn’t it? Except that, Dean’s not so sure about that anymore. He starts to feel very angry about this particular kitchen. But who is he fooling, it doesn’t end in the fucking kitchen.

“And you?” Bobby asks. “How are you doing?”

Yeah, he’s taking example from his baby brother and he’s taking lessons in crazy. He just doesn’t have a bitch to bitch at. So clearly, he doesn’t even know _what_ is he doing. Answering something that starts with a complicated and irrelevant _how_ is obviously out of the question. There’s just one problem he’s at least able to lick and damn, this is gonna be the only one that’s there, the one that is sitting in the study, playing fucking Sudoku with weapons. That’s the only thing that matters and the only thing that ain’t a pansy whim bullshit. And feeling like there’s a fucking lake tailing you does classify as bullshit.

“Seriously, Bobby. It ain’t like he’s hexed, you know. I mean, what if it’s the kind of crazy you can’t fix?” he feels like a broken record, he’s said this already twenty eight times in the past few days and he’s going nowhere with it, still. But it’s the only thing he can think of. What if everything is going to stay like this? What if, this time, it’s not a shit they can stab. What if it’s just life getting to their heads in the non-perks of apple pie picket fence crap way?

“I’m worried, too. But humor me for a second. How are you?”

Well, he’s picket fence gone wrong, again, so…

“Who cares?” he’s having none of it. “Don’t you think our mailbox is a little full right now? I’m fine.” Someone has to be. So if Sam can’t be fine, again, he’ll be. Someone has to. Someone fucking has to.

“Right. And weren’t you pissed at him when he said the same just a couple of hours before he spilled his marbles all over the floor?” the accuracy of those words is a punch to the throat Dean certainly wasn’t prepared for. He is handling it. He’s always handling his mask. So where the fuck did that come from. Does he look like a nut job already? He’s been dealing with all sorts of crazy crap for all his life and it’s been what, two days? Two days and he’s already considered mental because of something he hadn’t even mentioned? Or maybe that comment didn’t happen, too? Oh, come on.

Dean senses amusement. But it’s not his, not Bobby’s, either. Dean has reached a whole new level of the exact opposite of perfect.

“Yeah, well. I’m not Sam, okay?” he deflects as he pours himself another portion of coffee just in case he ever felt like going to sleep ever again in his life. “I keep my marbles in a lead freaking box.” And he damn does. It’s a whole ‘nother thing something puked out some mindfuck toxins all over his pretty, locked up marbles. He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, but he sure does know that whatever it is, now it got too far. If he can feel empty space mocking him already, then what’s next? Because if there’s gonna be another unreal mattress surprise to not-find in the menu for tonight, he’s not willing to crash a bed anytime soon. Not until he sorts shit out. Or even not before he dies, if necessary.  “I’m fine, really.”

“Of course. Just lost one of your best friends you ever had, your brother’s in the bell jar and Purgatory’s most wanted are surfing the sewer lines but you know, yeah, yeah I get it, you’re… you’re fine.”

When Bobby ends his short, but gut-wrenching list, Dean looks down in a mixture of shame and nostalgia. He’s ashamed Bobby brings out Cas as first, because it’s awkwardly accurate and it makes him feel uncomfortable. The rest is just an echo of a conversation already had between them a dozen times. At the same time, he tenses and licks his mouth in distress upon having the leviathans mentioned. He stops himself from saying something, stops himself from stopping Bobby, for that matter. He doesn’t want them to be called out – he doesn’t want them to jump out when he’s not ready. He remembers what they came for and he remembers them announcing what for they wished to return. They’re still hidden somewhere, far from here, but all the same, it feels like they might jump out from under the counter any second, Cas-dressed or Cas-less. Just because they were called. Maybe it works like with Voldemort’s name, who the fuck knows? Wasn’t it for Sammy, Dean would much rather be already killed and get this over with than having to do all the waiting for something that might as well not come. He’s so deep inside his useless thoughts he actually has to look up back at Bobby in the end, because for a second there, Dean could have sworn that Bobby’s second “you’re fine” sounded like some fucking parseltongue. Like a hissed out chanting he’s never heard, he cannot place, but he somehow recalls. So he just makes sure it’s Bobby. Looks like Bobby, alright.

“Good,” he cuts it and just in case he moves away, gets back to the chair and does all he can to not spare Bobby a glance.

“Course if at any time you wanted decide that’s utter horse crap,” Dean rolls his eyes at those words, but he admits he’s relieved cause from the insufferable amount of whining now he at least knows it’s his Bobby. “Well, I’ll be where I always am – right here.”

Yep, that’s his Bobby. The best one in the fucking world, Dean thinks. But it doesn’t stop him from not having this conversation.

“What, do you want to do couples yoga or you want to get back to hunting the big bads?”

But why did he even conjure a couple-related thought all out the sudden is far, far beyond him. He’s getting lame. Or old.

“Shut up,” still he even smiles as Bobby retorts to his bullshit, “idjit.”

Or that, Dean decides, or just plain stupid.

*

Time passes too slowly and with every endless hour of these days Dean gets more and more convinced that he is, in fact, getting dumber. He’s a Winchester. Time used to be an uncatchable thing, a good he’s never able to afford. Now, he finds himself almost constantly sat down flat – whether it be Bobby’s old sofa, the porch stairs or a chair in the study. Always with a glass or bottle of something in hand to shush down his thoughts. His mind seems to be split into a perfect dichotomy. One track is the road of  Sam’s daily intervals with Satan – it hurts to just sit there and watch him frown at empty space or abruptly jolt in some kind of fear and pain mixture – all of this happening while pointlessly rearranging things in the room or reading something as research, with reading being having the damn thing opened on the same page for five consecutive hours. But Dean says nothing about it – what is there to say? What words could change the fact that currently his brother’s mind considers him a fifty percent chance that he is merely a figment of his devil-strained imagination?

But Dean says nothing about it also because he’s beginning to feel more akin to Sammy, whether he feels like admitting that or not. Because the second half of his head is trying to swallow his own imaginary problem – the one that’s pretty much making him Jack fucking Torrance obsessing over Virginia Woolf in a trench coat. And in all honesty, it all went far enough he just has to go check up on the damn thing to remind himself the son of a bitch ain’t there. He even bothered to scan the place with the electromagnetic field meter of his. And got squat. Because yeah, it went that far. When there’s no one else around, he hears it. The sound of somebody trying to march through water, he feels moisture and wetness all over, it smells even like the plants on the window sills are drowning overfed with water and the soil looks and reeks like mud, but when he touches it, and he does, he fucking has to – it’s dry. He can hear a low hum of a voice he last heard begging him to run and he tries to quiet it down with the feeling of scotch rolling down his throat, but the drunker he gets – the louder it becomes. But he drinks even more instead of stopping, because it at least stops being such a bother when he isn’t sober. Sometimes when he’s drunk, he thinks it’s even good because it is a punishment he deserves. Other times, when he’s mid his near pass out experience, he tells himself it’s good, because it’s at least a memory, that voice. And that he misses it. And if there’s anything to which he wants to lay down and never open up his eyes again – it’s that.

But he fucking opens them again each day which only prolongs his problem. He begins to hate this fucking house – it was a shelter and now it’s this mausoleum with invisible guests that are consequently taking it over. He can’t even hide anymore. He deliberately avoids the kitchen and the bed. Especially the bed. Bedroom is a terrifying place – isolated cage where he allows himself to temporarily die but never gets that promise really fulfilled, where it’s too silent about life, but the intangible weight next to him is the warmest, heaviest, most pulling and the voice from beyond the water grave is the loudest and sometimes he could even swear he could make distinct syllables out of the gravel noise. He never repeats out loud what he hears, but he mouthed the word silently once and it was terrifying enough to not do that again. Or maybe it was too painful to remember and compare with the times when it was a real, good thing to hear.

 _Dean_ – it said, quick and heavy like a stone falling into an abyss – _Deaaan_ – it repeated, cutting, impatient and somehow stretched over his ears, over time. But when he turned around, and he had done so once, there was nothing. The bed was empty, it was dry, but it smelled like stale water and his face was wet in exchange.

“I can’t,” he murmured to the nothing and took another swig from his whiskey holy grail. But the nothing either didn’t buy his excuse or simply wasn’t there to begin with. He doesn’t stay for the night in the spare bedroom, since. He sleeps downstairs – where there’s Sammy and Satan, where it’s safe and he doesn’t have to be alone with a company he doesn’t really fucking have.

But when he falls asleep – there’s Cas. Cas in the brothel, Cas in the sun, squinting, in a diner – frowning, frowning at him here against this wall, pouty like a pansy and it could have been silly if it wasn’t that sad, Cas in the water – black and dead. Like Dean’s mind when he wakes up. When he wakes up to see the space where Cas once stood at some point but never will again.

Dean is very angry with this place.

                                                  

But when he gets an opportunity to leave it, he’s very reluctant to agree to that. He looks around the room uneasily and searches for excuses he’s almost positive they won’t work, but tries them anyway. Whatever it is in this house, Sammy and Bobby shouldn’t be alone with it. But then again, he considers, that they’re unaware because it’s not affecting them at all. It’s either his or it is after him. Just him. And every god damn day it’s just them, a brutal, gore spaghetti western, the main road of a shitty town, at noon, but not a single bullet comes out from each side so far. It’s the waiting that doesn’t end. It’s the constant first shoe. So in general resignation, he actually agrees to check the case, even though he’s sure he’s not ready to face the leviathans yet, if it’s their doings. Maybe there will be answers. Maybe there will be an end to the waiting.

At the pool, Dean finds very little. Two things he expected and one thing that he didn’t. There’s a gory fucking mess – of course there would be. There’s a smear of black crap – apparently those little shits didn’t even bother to keep their hands clean, but would he expect anything more from a sack of deranged, Cas-twisting fuckers that might or might have not wanted to ride his fucking ass like he’s Belladonna? Of course not. But out of all things, he didn’t expect to find that particular silence there. Even with all the blood, it seemed normal – well, speaking in the terms of his life. Nothing followed him, nothing observed him, the only water related smell was that of chlorine. It was just him and the forensics. Last time empty space and a bloody human-flesh mess made him feel this soothed was back in Hell.

And that’s a terrible comparison to have. Dean shudders involuntarily and calls it a day. Vacation’s over, he’s going back.

*

Back didn’t happen that fast and what is more to it – it isn’t as good as predicted. In fact, it came out to be a very distant concept. He only manages to take a peek into Bobby’s house and that too had told him three things. Sam wasn’t there. Bobby wasn’t there. The haunting creepiness was not also there. And that was, each problem respectively, fucking bad, fucking unexpected and what the fucking hell even. Maybe he was wrong all along? Maybe it was there for real, outside of his cuckoo’s nest and it took them for a fuck up ride while he was away?

He kept asking himself that for the whole drive to the place Sam’s GPS indicated he would be, but the truth didn’t happen to be any less terrifying. He realized his brother was worse than he claimed – seeing the Devil is one thing. Making him wear the skin of the person you trust the most is a whole new level of no-no. But letting him lure and tempt you to the point of driving you away and making you lash out at both loved ones and empty space – this is not something Dean will “okay” to and let that happen. Even if it requires fighting Hell with Hell and pain with pain. He knows pain, he knows Hell. He knows how these two thing intertwine and how they do not. As an artisan, he differentiates the real method from a lie. Even insanity begins with the fire of the flesh – he had ensured that transcendence too many times to count back in the days. And he thought he’d actually get away from remembering that work experience.

And yet, when he managed to put out Sam’s fire, he found that bigger flames still awaited them.

Bobby’s place was a god damn torch and obviously, the man was nowhere to be found despite the fact that he seemed to be safely headed home already after an encounter with a sewer bitch, and to add to Dean’s distress – obviously Bobby was not the only element missing. The question still lingered – maybe it was real, maybe it set the house on fire and got away.

When he separates with Sam, he calls for both. Pleas and prayers for Bobby, curses and threats for the other thing.

“Is that what you want? A pansy vendetta? Sulking much cause I ignored you? That’s your fucking point? Come on, let’s chat now! Wanted my life out of the way? You’ve done it!” he shouts into thin air, but he doesn’t even get a distinct chill in his back that he could take for an answer.

Resigned completely, he calls Bobby’s phone again and just hearing his voice from the recording feels like fifteen knives in his chest. Just then Dean fucking understood that with Bobby gone, he’s gone too. So he snaps.

“You cannot be in that crater back there. I can't…if you're gone, I swear I am going to strap my "Beautiful Mind" brother into the car, and I'm gonna drive us off the pier!” he threatens and for a moment, he means all of it. “You asked me how I was doing? Well, not good. Now, you said you'd be here. Where are you?” he fucking prayer-begs while wondering why in the end does he always have to ask that one question, why are the most important ones never there after making him believe that they will? His thoughts return to the suddenly appealing idea of driving off the pier. But Sammy’s voice takes him back to reality. And Sam needs him alive, at least for as long as he’s bordering with shooting his own shoelaces and mistaking them for mister fucking morning superstar.

Except that, he realizes immediately after, that even though he had made a decision about staying in this shithole called life, apparently some bitchy force of the universe made it clear that it wanted both him and his brother out. There’s nothing as clear as beaming down a very unpleased, repelled with you non-Cas leviathan at your burning door and making it double for Sam’s fucked with the head thing and also double for your own constantly sat-down lack of moves and options.

Upon, on top of that, being taken to a bitch-swarmed hospital, Dean Winchester decides that there still is a God in the game and he just flipped both middle fingers at them. After that, his body says it’s really way past his bedtime and forces him to pass out. But when, he’s got no idea how much time later, the first thing he gets after waking up is nearly passing out again  with a pain in his leg of the force of four hundred sons of bitches and having shit knows what injected for dessert, he actually thinks that losing consciousness like a bitch might really be a his thing from now on and he even manages to feel irritated about it. Only for a moment though, because – well whaddya know – he fucking passes out again like he’s six.

*

Dean opens his eyes. Everything is a blur and he feels inadequately heavy. There’s too much machine beeping in the damn room and right away he notices he’s having oxygen delivered mechanically, as would those fucking pipes in his nose indicate. Now, he ain’t no doctor, but he’s damn sure this isn’t how breaking a fucking leg works. He takes a look around, still, everything remains quite dizzy. One detail appears to be noticeable enough, though.

“Cas?” he addresses the issue with weak voice and very strong hint of hope in it. Unfortunately, it shakes its head in denial. And Dean doesn’t quite understand. How can there be Cas, staring at him like Cas and not be Cas? Is he missing something?

“You seem to be very manageable when drugged,’” it says with Cas’s voice and it baffles Dean even further. “It sets you free a little, doesn’t it? Allows you to let out that certain fondness you have for him. I think I begin to see why he thought of you so warmly,” Not Cas muses. “So warmly he burned out,” it shrugs with a chuckle. “Silly him.”

Now Dean doesn’t understand shit, alright.

“What the hell is wrong with you this time, man?”

Sitting on a chair next to his bed, it shifts itself to face him entirely and he can see it raised both eyebrows at him in suspicion.

“Sillier you,” it says like it’s an epiphany and fuck,  maybe it is, except that Dean doesn’t care, he just wants real answers right now. “Suppression, Dean, really? Is this going to be your trademark? We’ve met once and you already thought I’m that much of trauma your pretty little head decided you’re not going to keep it?”

“What?!” Dean barks out at this litany of fucking bullcrap.

“He really was your weak spot, considering how quickly you fell apart at your seams.”

“Listen up, assclown. You better spill what you are before I make you. And don’t even start with any cryptic bullshit.”

“I’m the one that got left behind,” it says somberly.

“What the fuck did I just tell you.”

“But that’s true!” it huffs. “If it weren’t for him and you, I’d never get tainted or be made as separate. And yet, I am,” it sighs, throwing his hands away in very un-Caslike gesture of complete exasperation, making Dean cringe at the eerie sight. “Honestly, I don’t like it and you’re the only one remaining to put up with this, so you will, Dean,” it adds, tone of its voice suddenly darker. “It’s up to you how you want this acquaintance to happen. We can play friendly but just as well, I can give you the opposite. I am already very angry with you, if you must know.”

Dean attempts to snort, but the damn thing in his nose makes it a failure. “And what do you have to be angry about, huh? If you’re the asshole messing with me in Bobby’s house and the one responsible for all of the shit that went down – pal, I’m pissed. You get me?”

“Stop going where I can’t follow!” Not Cas lashes out unexpectedly. “This is exactly why that happened and it was none of my doings, Dean! You have put this threat on yourselves. Do not enrage the serpent because when you do, I can’t follow. I cannot even be in this house of the ill with you.”

“Then get the fuck out.”

Rather than with offense, the familiar but different face responds to Dean’s words with tired defeat. “I am not there, Dean. You are unconscious. We are in your memory. He was sitting in this chair next to you, once. When you were torn and beaten because he made you bend your will to accept his plea. He regretted so much he never forgot, therefore  I know. You remembered this place as the first thing when you opened your eyes and saw where you are, so I came. And here too, I don’t have much time. Soon they will be aware of mine and your presence both.”

“Then get the fuck out,” Dean harshly repeats through gritted teeth.

“I really hope it is the pain in your leg that keeps straining your mind from thinking clear and making your self-preserving instincts limp, Dean.”

“Don’t test me,” Dean snarls. “I don’t take douchebag threats nicely.”

“What harm am I to you now, Dean? Couldn’t you use some help? I can make that pain go away, if you let me.”

“I don’t make friends with monsters. And that’s final.”

It nods slowly, something so subtly, yet rudely patronizing, Dean wants to get up and punch this bitch.

“You don’t make friends, Dean. On that I agree,” the asshole starts. “What you made with the six-winged, four-headed fiery serpent capable of annihilating civilizations with a single breath is far past friendship. So what then unnerves you so much? That I am wearing this skin when I wish to see you? It was not his, either. We both only did this to please you.”

“Do I look pleased to you?” Dean groans, irritated.

It smiles enigmatically in reply.

“And weren’t you until you’ve learned who I’m not?” it leers.

“Don’t you fucking Freud me.”

“Dean, quit the pointless avoidance and for once just listen. I can make you forget the truth. I can make you forget the leg. For a moment I can make you forget that he died” it offers.

“And what – you’re gonna do the fingers on forehead thing and make me shiny and new then stamp me with some asshole deal? Right.”

“If fingers on your forehead is how you’d wish it, you’ll have it.”

“No,” he cuts.

“I don’t make deals, Dean. There is nothing I could do with your soul. There is no reason to do anything with it. I can only study you. I cannot kill you and you cannot kill me – is there a point for putting up a fight?”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Dean inquires.

“This is not something I’m willing to discuss with you right now.”

“Drop the stupid games and tell me,” he warns.

“Agree on my offer and I might tell you. Remain stubborn and learn nothing.”

“Yeah? And what’s in it for you? You really that much monster Samaritan? Dude, I’m drugged, I’m in my head and I’m still not buying.”

“Amusement, occupation and knowledge,” it says matter of-factly. “They wanted to learn you, you know. But they banished me. And now I will learn you first and they get nothing. That’s the only revenge I can have, but it’s still a consolation, is it not?” it ponders and laughs with soft bitterness. It looks full of regret – just like Cas did, too many times – Dean notices. Everything is getting too familiar. Dean needs to react and cut it before he can get fooled with the bittersweet shit of it.

“Very well, then. You want to learn? Lesson one: learn to fuck off when I tell you to fuck off.”

“Good,” it says with a smile and it annoys Dean even more because that’s the last thing he expected. “You’re so livid, Dean,” Not Cas says with awe. “Like quicksilver. It’s admirable, in a way. Challenging, mostly,” it adds a moment later as it gets up from the chair and places two fingers on Dean’s forehead. “But you too must learn that I don’t always feel obliged to care.”

Dean swallows nervously and supposes something out of those fingers is going to get him dead any second now. “It would be the best for you to understand that in our current situation, you can make choices. But it’s not up to you to make decisions. You have already made the one that matters,” it attempts to explain, but right away it apparently recalls that it would still tell Dean nothing. It sighs heavily. “But you don’t remember that either, do you?”

 Dean frowns. He didn’t do squat.

“Yeah. Actually, last time I saw you, you were having some leaking difficulties and my decision on the matter was to suggest you to fuck off, which at least then – you did. So clearly-”

“It wasn’t me back there, Dean.”

“Well who the hell are you, then – a ladybug?”

But it doesn’t answer. It just begins to shush him.

Dean stands corrected. Now happens something that is certainly the last shit he expected. He’s been paying attention to the wrong hand. He, Dean Winchester, got himself caught into a diversion for five year olds. And yet, it’s definitely not his biggest shame and problem for the moment.

“Now you’ve crossed the line!” Dean shouts as he is thrashing around in the bed, but something invisible is clearly keeping his chest pinned down to the mattress. The other warm hand ventures lower beneath Dean’s sheets and spotted hospital gown.

“Oh, I haven’t done anything, yet,” it chuckles casually and lowers its head while slowly stroking Dean’s limp flesh, obviously intending to awake it wholly.

“I’m going to kill you,” Dean says as coldly as he possibly can in between desperate attempts to hold his breath as long as he is only able to. “I’m hunting you down, first thing after I wake up.”

It only shushes him further and hums in reply while it looks down on Dean’s offensively exposed most intimate area with earnest interest, the blue eyes squinted, mesmerized, dark lashes nearly tangling with Dean’s pubic hair, the lack of collision there suddenly becomes a tingling sensation. And when he becomes aware of it, he begins to writhe even more furiously. It gets him nowhere. The weight keeping him strapped remains unmoved.

“Dean,” it sighs in a voice that is fucking deliberately a perfect copy of Cas’s and tries to pull the ‘eyes full of longing and understanding’ trick on him. And for a moment, a part of him got fooled. The part that’s currently in the douchebag’s confident, hardworking hand. What a perfect time for self-betrayal, Dean notes.

“See?” it tries. “I told you that you could have him alive for a moment. That you could forget.” With that it proceeds to sink its mouth down on him. And all Dean can do is whimper and hiss.

“Don’t you fucking dare to ruin Cas,” he snarls through gritted teeth, teary-eyed, trying so hard to fight the effects of the inappropriate stimulation with his will.

Not Cas doesn’t bother with answering that for quite a while, it remains diligent and thorough in its filthy, efficient work of its mouth and forked tongue, keeps focused on observing every single reaction it gets from Dean and the weaker his body gets in its resistance, the louder it purrs, feeding on the involuntary movements of Dean’s hips, on his uneven breathing and muffled cries, those knuckles that are white from holding the hospital sheets and of course, the contrast made by Dean’s face – red, contorted with anger and shame, painted with lack of oxygen and the madness of blood rushing. The more it sees, the more eager it gets, the deeper it tries to go and not choking, not breathing, takes everything proudly and hums, the vibration from that throat echoing around Dean, causing another wave of eerie shivers. Only when it realizes it had taken Dean to the verge, it stops.

Dean, already thunderstruck and lost entirely to the world of coherent thoughts, in a mixture of shock, despair and anticipation, finally allows himself to open his eyes. He didn’t want to see Cas destroyed, he wanted to disconnect mentally from that double assault, but it worked quite poorly. Now, he caught himself having an eye to eye with the ‘not Cas’ Cas and it’s not working at all. Through his clouded mind, through his heavy, blurry eyes, there’s just Cas that he sees. Cas, who’s squinting in curiosity and concentration, eyes piercing him like always with that kind of feverishness he can never really get away from. Cas, with reverence and artistry in his soft, warm hand which is methodical as an assassin’s, and it is killing him cause Dean’s breathless. Cas, as always burning with passion, his mouth raw, wet and ready, fitting him like a tailored glove. It’s a new, different combination – his flesh and Cas’s mouth like this. But Dean thinks it’s beautiful. But at the same time, it’s too much. He closes his eyes again because he doesn’t handle nor does he understand what he sees.

Before his lids fall, he catches a glimpse of those pale, bottomless eyes shining with primal ferocity, something ancient. And as he painfully exhales, he thinks that maybe it’s an angel thing. Taking that for a sign, the fucking weapon of a mouth continues, its throat chanting a melody of commitment and satiation as he’s matching the old song with the duduks of his cries, his shattered lungs and shallow breathing.  Lead by a powerful hand and a greedy mouth, for a moment Dean becomes a tempest, he becomes a pause. And all of his fire and lightning is taken care of, devoured. The enraged wave of the sea that his chest is, gets soothed by a wet, whisperer hand. Over time he opens the gates of his mind once more and welcomes in the cast out air and reason. Air cuts him through as would knives. And the reason silently cries in woe and hopeless despair like the holy mother in pietas.

Having blood back in his brain, Dean becomes mournfully aware. Those lips coated thickly with his undoing are not and never were Cas’s. And even if they were, it would not be a thing to praise, to allow, to consider. But it’s even worse since it’s not. Not Cas is standing there beside him – proud, victorious and cunning. It’s smiling, and the stolen face is burdened with the distinct form of affection that only the feeling of complete superiority creates. It put on a game and it won. It took Dean apart, piece by piece, thread by thread, flaw by flaw, one weakness after another. In all possible ways, he’s undone. Now they both are aware which one of them is the one with power. But it was a point mercilessly and unnecessarily proven. Ripping a lung out or biting his legs off would show it just the same. But that at least would be humane.

“Why did you do this?” he asks hoarsely, faintly, his voice nothing but a whimper of a beaten up stray dog.

“Because you went where I could not follow.”

Reptiles are like Angels – they just don’t do humane, apparently, Dean supposes and he shakes his head, huffing at his own realization.

The stern features of the damn thing’s face soften, offering something resembling, or maybe just pretending to be, compassion. It rises its hand – exactly that fucking one of course – and cups his wet, burning cheek, melting the palm’s skin into the delicate stubble on his face as it strokes it caressingly with a thumb. With the other hand it closes his eyes.

“At least you don’t feel your leg anymore, do you?” Not Cas tells him. The weight lingering on his chest gets lifted at last and with a shiver of relief, Dean finally breathes in freely.

“What was that?”

“I am that. I just did not want you to have to see,” it chuckles rather softly, with nostalgia maybe. “I am more than these hands, Dean. I am more.”

“Damn right you’re too fucking much,” Dean sighs.

It hums, as if it actually considered the thought.

“Sleep well, Dean,” it offers as something Dean really hopes would be their final farewell. Upon taking its leave, it kisses Dean’s lips with that filthy mouth and lets it rest there far too long before it disappears. Dean can taste his own saltiness and he wants to vomit. But just as his intruder goes away – his fake consciousness drifts away as well.

When he wakes up hours later, he’s blank again. He feels light, relaxed – as if years of his body’s tension were lifted from him – it lasts only a moment, but it’s there. Dean blames the morphine. Right away, he remembers that Bobby is dead, just like Cas. That he and Sam were taken to the wrong hospital, the god damn lethal one. The burden and tension return. Dean once again is old, too old. Old, hopeless and alone in the world of liquid cunts. Everything gets darker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from:  
> Bee Gees- "Tragedy"
> 
> also mentioned:  
> Pink Floyd - "High Hopes"


	8. VIII.

**VIII**

**“What’s love but a second hand emotion”**

Rufus’s cabin should be a shelter – thickly veiled by endless woods, lack of main roads, cut away from the world through a nearby stream, ornamented on the outside with nothing more but an old, most likely long drained well and all sorts of wild green – it should be a relief, a good place for Dean to lick himself back into health and for Sam – at least to try. Should be closest to home place, by proxy, now that Bobby’s house was not an option anymore – and since they all were in this together – it should be second best.

Well, it isn’t. Not for Dean.

This place won’t leave him alone, either. It’s just that it must have changed its modus operandi, Dean decides. At first, he wasn’t sure if it is the same damn thing, but soon enough, his skin got to experience that familiarly unfamiliar sensation and his nose picked up on the water just as well. It were his eyes and ears that apparently had earned a change that was, to subtly put it, fucking uncalled for.

The thing about ears is probably just a vile coincidence. Immobilized due to his injury, Dean is left to survive on the mercy of a small TV set and a radio. Oddly enough, most of the songs are annoying and insufferable on a personal level. Thing is, he can’t make a single damn comment on any of them, since this would earn him very suspicious stares from both Bobby and Sam, and hell, maybe even from the nonexistent Lucifer who isn’t there. Dean won’t and can’t explain. There’s nothing to explain. So he lets the music hit him, hearing it probably as even more gloomy than it was originally intended by the artists. Vh1 keeps tormenting him for most of the time now and he’s very short from the level of desperation that might make him switch onto all day marathons of Argentinean telenovelas. As of now, a solemn face of a nearly-hairless lady is already sewn somewhere into his memory and with it always comes the thought, a question quiet but urgent: how is it possible to make it through seven hours and fifteen days?

It’s been hardly a week. And with all that’s around him – an unnamed void in his gut, an unnamed addition to his space and brother disconnected from the world with a wall of cheery, impossible Satans and of course, all over the country there’s this whole merry pack of hungry, oozy hippos frolicking around, so with nothing stronger right next to him to lean on, to make him keep going and feel that it’s worth it – no, Dean doesn’t think he’ll manage to grasp another week, not to mention a lifetime. His lifetime, in his personal opinion, ended centuries ago when it pretty much Ophelia’d into the water.

*

Surprisingly, that magical, head-haunting number already passed and Dean is not as dead as he supposed or, disregarding his better judgment from time to time, kind of secretly even wished he’d be. He was the next worst thing: alive while out of options. He did, however, have to resort to those cheap, foreign TV shows eventually, because he couldn’t handle sappy songs anymore. The less sappy ones, too. In fact, every single one was a wrong one, because all songs deep down are about the same damn thing, in the end. Against his will and any voice of reason, he managed to get himself invested in the stupid story. Maybe because he could relate, he realized when it was already too late to quit it. He didn’t quite expect the latest episode’s outcome – the similarity of its plot and his shitty life was uncanny in a really uncomfortable, gut-twisting way. He was not even aware he was holding his breath until he had to get some to fill Bobby in on the matter. A dude who looks far too much like Cas – which, Dean has got to admit at least to himself, is why he actually bothered  to stick to this particular show in the first place – also happened to die on him. So now he’s got an image of two dead Castiels, sort of. But it’s not what he wants to tell Bobby, of course.

“Dude, Ricardo” – Dean announces with great seriousness right after the other man gets inside of the house.

“What happened?” Bobby inquires.

“Suicidio.”

“Adios, ese,” Dean hears his friend commenting while he keeps watching with a pained expression on his face, eyes glued to the dreadful sight on the screen and shakes his head in disbelief. “Well, this ought to cheer you up,” Bobby changes the subject as if he knew something was going on.

Because of the distinct noise he realizes that what Bobby just thrown at him are the Impala’s keys.  And God, Bobby is right: it does cheer him up. Finally, something what he cares about that isn’t dead. That is something pleasant to see.

*

There are much more things unpleasant to see, though. Both when he is awake and while he is vulnerable in his sleep. He checked the cabin in terms of all possible protection, he checked the electromagnetic field here, as well. Again, nada. Of course he doesn’t tell Bobby or Sam. He does, however, make use of his skills in dancing around the subject. Nonchalantly, he asks Bobby if he checked the place while talking about resources.  So when the hunter mentions nothing out of the ordinary, Dean subconsciously begins to look around the place nervously, at the same time having it finally confirmed that the problem is lingering in his head and his head only.

And this basically means that he’s in no better shape than his Sammy. Because if he sees his beer in a sink instead of standing nicely on the table, his whiskey in a wrong cabinet,  his blanket not how he left it, remote not where he put it or some books not where they stood – and he does see all of that on a daily basis – it means that he put it that way and then forgot or what’s worse: that he put it that way, thinking he was doing it for a yet not deciphered, but very particular reason. Or that he had done so while being almost convinced that he saw a glimpse of something doing that instead – which would be the worst.

This theory makes most sense to Dean, cause in the end – the most vile shit always goes down in his head when he’s asleep. Except that, by vile, he means frustrating, since the sensation and that sight itself he foggily recalls as pleasant. And that’s the problem. The fucking infuriating problem. For some time already, every now and then when his self-defense fails and he catches some zees whether he wants it or not, he dreams, almost lucidly, about warmth and completion that only another body can give. There he has it: the only one who makes it right, there’s loving eyes and a devout mouth, there is the only kiss able to fulfill. A final truth locked within a gaze, something that he sought for so long and finally found. The missing piece put into place. Joy of companionship on a windy, winter night. Peace and finality among clean sheets that for once, do not confine him like Lisa’s did. There he has it: serenity. But when he wakes up, right away he loses all of it.  Even the outlines of that face are lost, color of those eyes irretrievable, the words mute, sheets gone – it all falls silent and dissolves. The only thing that is always left is the conviction – that there were all the answers within his grasp, but they have died and turned into ashes. He only knows that he knew. And it enrages him. The abrupt lack of the awareness this palpable – throughout all of his following days remains a static electricity creeping on his skin and far, far beneath.

And all of it is entirely his own fault.

Still, one undeniably good thing he makes out of it is that this means Sam and Bobby are in no immediate danger. He’s relieved enough that he actually encourages his brother to leave the cabin and do some shopping. Cause at the same time he’s afraid enough that he really needs to vent. Dean tries to be reasonable, but turns out as usual. Poor Bobby gets to take all of his anger.

As soon as his old friend leaves as well, Dean begins to look around the cabin’s walls cautiously, wondering with a hint of desperation, what possibly could his damaged mind serve him next.

He hears his own name being called, twice, the voice beckoning him sharp and curious. As if it were a fascinated ten year old’s, but locked inside of a three times older body.

Dean huffs, more at himself than at it to be honest, gulps a whole beer in as quick as he only can, covers his head with a pillow and forces an attempt to go on a trip to dreamland. His waking hours are bullshit. Not long afterwards, Sam returns from the convenience store and Dean forces full consciousness back into the front of his head. He hadn’t fallen asleep yet, but he was pretty close to dozing off. Making use of his superb spying skills once again, he makes a small inquiry, wishing to get an actual update on Sam’s current level of internal fire – which, of course, is a priority – but also to gain some kind of info that might get him any sort of insight on his own curious case of slipping in and out of fucking being John Nash. But even though he’s secretly hoping for anything that might at least in the slightest come off as good news, he’s got to go on without. Sam doesn’t really think he’s better in terms of actual improvement. He just doesn’t know. One thing he knows – he knows the difference between what is real and what is not. Dean tenses up involuntarily, he isn’t relieved at all.

In fact, he feels worse – he didn’t realize it was even possible, but here he fucking goes: it is. Worse, because it means that the talk he had with Sam that evening in the warehouse, didn’t help as much as he wished. His input had hardly any effect at all. He, the older one – was not able to do enough to fix his own brother, he couldn’t take this nightmare away from him, though he tried. All he can do is sit here in this parody of an armor and stare while Sammy  goes deeper and deeper into that fake hell of his. Even worse, because he – the one who was supposed to have his ducks in a row and control the situation – in opposite to Sam – he does not know the difference between what is real and what’s his weak brain’s bullshit, well not anymore, if he doesn’t even know what he did with his glass or if he feels a fleeting touch and gets goose bumps out of nowhere more often that he’d like to admit. This is not how things are supposed to work. Bobby won’t be able to handle both of them in various stages of amuck. Damn, Bobby isn’t even supposed to do that – he’s human, too.

And then there’s chompers, of course – in case he forgot. And something that isn’t there – Cas – he did not forget at all. So as previously established, Dean’s waking hours are shit. He might as well sleep through all of this crap going down, it’s not like he can do anything to stop any of this, anyway. Still, of course he won’t leave it alone.

“So don’t worry,” Sam tells him in the end. But Dean continues to worry regardless of that.

“Where’s the pie?” he asks, trying to shush the problems away with something good, for once.

“I got the cake. It’s close enough, right?”

Yeah, but this might actually be the one great disappointment Dean wants to sleep all through.

*

When on the next morning Dean wakes up to the noise of a documentary on TV, boring the shit and sleep out of his head, trying too loud to tell him that “here on the savannah, the wildebeest lounges, lazy and self-content, and is oblivious to the fierce predator that stalks him from the shadows”, he finally opens his heavy eyes and decides he’s done with that sort of crap for today and clicks the damn rambling thing off. As he does so, he notices a folded piece of paper. Dean grabs it immediately because he is pretty much certain he did not take any notes at any point in the past evening.

“Back in a few days. I’m fine – Sam.” – it vaguely informs.

Now, Dean really begs to fucking differ about either it or, especially, Sam being fine. Turns out there are bigger disappointments than no pie. Sam and Lucifer sneaking out on a date while Dean’s stuck and asleep is one of them. Dude ain’t fine enough to leave him be for too long right here – how bad can it possibly go when he’s away, in a completely different environment where he might fucking not be able to know the difference between  his inside and the outside? What the ever loving fuck is Sam thinking? Is Satan driving him this time, too? Jesus. He’ll rip the kid a new one when he gets him, that’s final.

Dean glances at his cell phone and is more than tempted to call Bobby right away with a portion of now _what the holy shits_ and _I told you sos_. But first things first, he decides. So he takes his crutch and limps out of the cabin to check if his Baby is still parked where she was meant to be or whether his Thelma and Louise little brother fucking dared to kidnap not only himself, but her too.

She’s gone. Apparently, he fucking did. Just peachy. Dean mutters heavy curses under his breath as he heads back to Rufus’s place, positive that he just earned himself one special bitchy phone call.

Except that no, he hadn’t earned squat because just now, his phone and Sam decided to have something in common: being missing. Dean knows that a moment ago he left the mobile on the table. He knows it. He fucking knows it. So hell no, this is not how things are gonna be. Not now. Not this time. Dean collects an emergency mobile out of a drawer and instead of immediately calling Bobby, he tries his own number. Without a doubt, the noise of his own preset tune is coming from the bedroom segment of this house. He hasn’t even been to that part of the cabin since at least a week. He didn’t need to go there at all, he only went there once, as far as he knows, because of desperation to find his mug of coffee which he surprisingly had found abandoned in the fireplace. And clearly, he did not venture there after waking up. Sam’s fucking memo left him aware enough to really know what he did and what he didn’t do in the past fifteen minutes. And yet, his cell is still ringing in there. Dean huffs, shakes his head and disconnects. He straightens his posture as much as he can in his current state and tries:

“Hello?” and of course, he gets nothing. “Thought so,” he mutters to himself and limps in that direction, being convinced this time that there is something, but it’s just trying to fuck with his head. Not this time.

But right after passing the bedroom threshold, Dean understands he was certainly not ready for what he just sees, nor could he ever possibly be.

 Close to the window, sitting cross-legged on a bed, illuminated by the morning sun, there is a silhouette in a dark, possibly black suit, not facing Dean but the outside seen through the window. Doesn’t have to be facing him anyway, he thinks. He’d recognize that body anywhere. Doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable, though. The Novak guy’s long dead and Cas (assuming he’d ever take that coat of his off, which is unlikely) is dead as fucking well. Dean assesses the situation in no time – he notices the impostor is casually holding his fucking cell phone in his hand, and he already knows how long will it take him to reach the salt, silver and holy water.

“Hello, Dean,” he hears a far too familiar voice as he is about to turn around and fetch the necessary equipment.

“No,” he barks back, not having, nor letting in any of this and limps away nervously as fast as he can. He’s glad he’s got his back turned – he can feel his face contorting into something he doesn’t want to show to anyone, not to mention this asshole. He doesn’t even register that by the time he gets back, his cheeks are already not only burning, but they’re wet as well.

Finally, the impossible figure already leaning against the fireplace acknowledges Dean’s presence fully and turns around slowly to meet his accusatory gaze. Dean, not looking away, begins to form a ring of salt. He’s got to start with something.

The usurper observes all of it with great curiosity and a tiny sign of amusement lifts his lips upwards. Son of a bitch is admiring Dean’s work. When the circle is done, neither of them says a word. At least not right away. Dean is watching intently as the dipshit that’s bold enough to come here wearing Cas like a Halloween suit, slowly uncrosses his legs, straightens his back and nonchalantly slides off the fireplace’s wall with an unreadable, yet somehow offensively content expression painted on his face. Dean fails to look away. Those limbs are swaying in an achingly frustrating way, there’s something about those movements that makes Dean want to pin the scumbag down and rip that skin off with his bare, tingling claws – or at least that’s what he thinks it is that he wants to do, since this is the closest he can put his finger on the disturbing feeling. It’s deliberate indecency, deliberate tease in how differently well that suit is fitting now that it lacks that coat, how much confidence there is in those same and yet different eyes and that neither human nor angelic, subtly cold smirk.

He’s like Catherine Tramell when he walks too unhurriedly towards the edge of that salt-ring and Dean is perturbed like Nick fucking Curran and equally dumbstruck, so he really wants to do something about the whole problem, but he’s too busy following every single said problem’s movement with his greedy, blood-lusting eyes. If looks could kill, the whole thing would be already over. But they don’t so it isn’t. It didn’t even really begin, Dean tells without even having to give it a second thought.

 Weight of the given stares, however, is very far from equal. He, whatever he is, hardly gives Dean’s features and movements half the attention. Seems disinterested as if there was nothing new in Dean for him to find, which is rather more unsettling than calming, to be honest. In fact, he seems to be more curious, insultingly more curious about the salt. He only spares Dean a daring glance as he slowly bends over forwards to get himself a handful of it.

Now Dean won’t let himself get dared like that by fucking anything, so he responds with splashing him in the face with holy water. And he, surprisingly, seems to be unaffected neither physically nor emotionally with the whole action. The bitch fucking snorts at Dean, on top of it.

“Made by the Father long before your Angels, Dean,” he sighs like a disappointed teacher. “Wouldn’t you think that’s holy enough to make me not only endure, but even welcome this sort of… refreshment?” he asks, smiling patronizingly while pointing at his wet face. “But then again, it would be too much of me to expect from you and your stunningly fragile mind to remember” he adds, throwing his hands up in a very not Cas-like way, probably, as Dean supposes, in a parody of hopeless resignation.

“Remember what?!” Dean groans, trying to lock his eyes with those eyes while already pointing a gun at the intruder’s temple.

“It is peculiar, how you so desperately try to erase or rebuild every memory, every single sign…” he almost whispers, prolonging the syllable far beyond its limit, “regarding him, when you are not strong enough to handle or not yet ready to comprehend,” he muses, takes a few steps towards Dean, crossing the salt line with no effort. Barrel of Dean’s gun is already directly touching his forehead. He finally returns that gaze, looks softer, fascinated and perhaps even compassionate. Dean swallows hard. He turns his head just like Cas and asks, “So, Dean, is this how you constantly feel like? About him? Having a trigger cooling your skin, threatening to shoot without a warning? Are you simply that afraid, Dean? Is this why you forget? Would knowing blow your brain out?”

Dean unlocks the gun in response.

“Stop it, douche bag. I’m the one entitled to asking questions here,” Dean hisses through gritted teeth.

“Fine,” he shrugs in defeat. “Ask. I’m all answers, Dean.”

“Where the hell did you come from and why,” Dean demands, more in a statement than an actual question. “Is this all you?” he then adds, gesturing at the place as whole.

“I was here all along. I came out of the water, separated by my own kin. Where you went, I followed,” he informs flatly.

Dean cleans his throat before he finds the point in himself to speak. Leviathans are one thing. But a chomper fucking groupie? Come on.

“Why?! I’m not a friggin boy-band, okay? Or do I look more of a soufflé than other people to you?”

He knits his brows and frowns, actually considering the issue quite seriously before answering.

“Yes.”

“Yes to which one?” Dean sighs exasperated.

“You are more than just a meal, Dean,” he says with great fervor and determination, as  if it really was a word of praise.

“Well that’s fucking flattering,” Dean cringes. “And yet, it still doesn’t explain shit, so you might want to feel like doing that before I spend my entire arsenal on you and find out what makes you bleed.”

“Unthinkable situation, I know. I too, would much rather to end you, eat you and reunite with the family. But since both you and him were stubborn enough to the point of tainting the entire hive – there is not a solution to this. He was so desperate to protect you from us, he left a mark in our mind, a scar. It was an ill, rotting limb, Dean. It was a weakness, they said.”

Dean’s face ventures further and further beyond its limits of mimic confusion.

“What?”

“Intent, Dean!” he rolls his eyes and grips Dean’s shoulder, trying to shake a bit of understanding into him. “Angels are intent! Do you know what his strongest intent was, Dean?” he asks, most likely rhetorically, and Dean holds his breath and he feels it hurt. He wants to find out. He needs to fucking know. Because even though Dean’s seen loads of impossible things and grasped them in no time, Castiel’s reasoning to this very day remains something Dean over and over failed to understand. He’s waiting for that answer to fall, but the chomper is not in a rush to reveal it. Now it is his turn for intense staring, so it seems. The monster digs deeply beneath Dean’s eyes with its fearless gaze and nods. Finally, he swiftly knocks the gun out of his immediate space and makes this ugly, clicking noise of disappointment with his mouth.

“Of course not. You don’t know anything, do you, Dean? He wanted to be close to you, wanted you by his side.”

Something in Dean breaks as he hears this.

“He had that!” he snaps, shaking his head, before he manages to bite himself in the tongue. But the Leviathan shakes his head as well, implying Dean still doesn’t understand.

“He wanted you to reciprocate.”

“Reciprocate what?!” Dean lashes out viciously. He does not understand at all. Still, he’s glad there’s no one around to hear him actually fussing over feelings. Whatever they are – that’s his.  Why is he even having this conversation and why is he willingly spilling so much is beyond his understanding just as well. Maybe because there’s still a chance none of this is real. Or maybe it’s just that Cas alone always seemed to be his ignition to reveal his weak points. And this fucker here is just playing with a cheater’s deck of cards with that gravel voice, piercing stare and perfectly copied mimics when he really wanted them to be.

“Dean, Dean, Dean…” he chants and even though Dean hates it and himself because of it, he’s got to admit that he missed hearing that voice coming out of that mouth and bearing his name. “Is this my place to teach you? Are you willing to understand?” he ponders and unexpectedly, begins to delicately rub the salt from his palm into the skin of Dean’s cheek, startling him like a terrified animal, making him try to jump away immediately. But it doesn’t happen – the other hand grasps him by the shirt and pulls back into place. “You are Lot’s wife, Dean. I will show you the new, I will show you what to reciprocate – but you will still remain with the old for at least as long as you shall know that it’s not him awaiting you beneath this skin, but I.”

“Yeah, he was my friend, not you. ‘Course I wouldn’t ditch him for a water-bitch,” Dean starts a retort, filling his tone with disappointment and shakes his head just to add to his point. “I don’t think this is anything new here. That’s something everyone, I mean everyone, would do in my shoes. I don’t think you’ve got any real answers. You’re just trying to bullshit your way through this, aren’t you?”

The monster huffs at Dean in disbelief.

“You, Dean, are the one bullshitting,” he says that making those stupid commas and Dean wants to punch the bastard even more because that is so not his thing to do. “Your dreams as of lately are not what we both would might call soothing in their nature. The only reason you do not know what it means to you is because you don’t let it in. Look at me Dean. I’m the one burdened with what you dream of.”

Now this is the very exact insinuation to make Dean feel fucking uneasy. Because while he isn’t exactly sure, when awake, what exactly is going on in these recent dreams, he can cell they pretty much have something to do with someone going down on him and giving the best blow job to ever fucking receive – something so thrilling and powerful that even though he did not actually get it – he will remember the sensations for decades to come, making all the past and future blowjobs look pale. And obviously, each time he wakes up, he’s not only full pissed off, but full hard as well – and it doesn’t even matter for how long he slept or what part of the day he woke up at, nothing does – he wakes up in that state as a rule. In fact, even recalling the whole ordeal right now might not be the best idea if he wants his dick to remain intact, Dean begins to think. So yeah, implying it has anything, fucking anything, to do with Cas is a no-no. But now that he got the idea planted into his head, it’s really trying to hit him, his mind furiously hoping to reconnect the dots. Very vivid and telling images are flashing before his eyes and he has to look away from the monster so maybe it would stop fuelling those damn horrible things.

“You can’t know what my dreams are and you’re wrong!” Dean spits and proceeds to rub his eyes. He doesn’t take his hand away from the face when he’s done. “Look. I don’t really have time for this, so –“

“Dean, I have been there. I ensured that,” the Leviathan leers. “Will you take my words on faith or do you want me to tell you step by step, what I have done in this skin to make you feel good?”

Dean is taken aback and for a moment he forgets to breathe. That’s a precise strategy to put him off, so he surely is not going to play along.

“Yeah, whatever, man. That’s nice of you. When I begin to care, I’ll send you flowers, so –“

“What would I do with flowers?” he inquires, unfittingly fascinated with the blatant insult.

“Well, plug them up your ass, I don’t know,” Dean says, stunned by the unexpected question.

The chomper, either taken aback or genuinely upset, knits his brows and hisses at Dean while holding up his finger in a gesture of warning. And perhaps that’s exactly what Dean needed to fully get back to his senses and remember that this son of a bitch ain’t another even more broken version of Cas, not even in the slightest bit. Suddenly he becomes aware he’s still being held by his shirt – and to say the very least – he isn’t very fond of it, now that he remembers who is _not_ holding. He smacks the hand off without a word of warning.

The Leviathan squints and throws his hand upwards in a gesture of disbelief.

 “Now give me back my phone!” Dean groans before he gets interrupted or distracted once more.

The monster reaches out for his suit pants’ pocket and returns to wagging a finger with the spare hand of his. But Dean is both unafraid and uncaring. If the bastard really wanted to kill him, he would have done so a long while ago. Maybe he even can’t do it at all, Dean wonders. He gets his phone handed to him with a frown and right after that, they both turn away wordlessly – Dean limps back into the main room and his Leviathan asshole guest plops his ass down on a bed again and returns to staring into the window – at least that’s what Dean sees when he decides to look over his shoulder before beginning to dial Bobby’s number.

“What? I hurt your feelings?” Dean mocks and notices with relief that it is incomparably easier and somewhat less painful for him to interact with that little shit when he is not within his sight.

The dick won’t answer. So, another asshole with a striking lack in understanding of basic sarcasm. Not that he cares. Dean huffs and internally berates himself for not having the green call button pressed yet. “Are you even real?” He asks, erasing the dialed number and trying Sam’s instead. He’s not going to say he’s sorry. Cause he’s not.

“Real enough, Dean,” is the flat answer. Not that talkative anymore when offended, Dean notices with slight hint of amusement. He gets voicemail, of course, and it’s friggin less amusing. So he goes with GPS. It’s off. Now it’s time to call Bobby, alright.

“So why show up now in particular if you’re so real and so all this time here, huh?” Dean prods, while pressing the mobile to his ear and waiting for Bobby to pick up the damn thing.

“Now you’re alone. I figured, you wouldn’t wish to talk to me in front of your kin so I decided such action as pointless,” he informs Dean dully.

Dean squints a little and nods in the universal “makes sense” gesture.

“But now I don’t wish to talk to you,” the monster pansy princess adds and Dean rolls his eyes without saying anything to that, because for the love of everything – what the actual fuck is that supposed to be. Normally, he’d go with saying something along the lines of “grow a pair”, but he reconsiders his choice and supposes that in this case, it might be best not to encourage that.

Bobby finally answers the phone. Dean decides somewhat unconsciously to spill the entirety of his today’s frustration on the poor man. He’s going to apologize for that later. While on the phone, he glances back once and sees his chomper pal curiously poking a long dried to death windowsill plant with his fingers.

He disconnects.

“You wanna guilt trip me into flowers now?”

No answer.

 Dean leaves the cabin and heads to a storage and after a few good minutes of searching, he’s back again, snickering cunningly with an electric grinder in his hand. He plugs it in and attempts to saw his cast off. He doesn’t get to do shit, however, because just a moment later, the hardware turns itself off. Dean turns around, confused and sees the Leviathan standing next to the socket, with an unplugged wire in hand.

“Would you fucking mind turning that back on?”

“This is unreasonable, Dean,” he huffs. “You’re going to hurt yourself like this.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” Dean sneers in reply. “Not your piece of shit to care, anyway.”

“This can be done faster. Last time I checked, you were quite urgent on the matter.”

“You mean?” Dean asks more out of suspicion rather than genuine interest.

“I can take that off,” he assures.

“Gee, thanks, Ms. Nightingale, but no,” Dean snorts, equally repelled and bemused.

The monster doesn’t say anything more, he just walks towards Dean, snaps the equipment away from his hand and throws it against the wall with disturbingly inhuman force. So much for the grinder, may it rest in pieces.

“Yes, great input,” Dean comments bitterly.

“Now, I have to take it off,” the chomper says, shrugging and he notions at the couch.

Dean sits down, albeit discontentedly. When those hands in a nonchalant, as if accidental  touch, brush through the jeans on his thighs in order to reach the borders of his cast, he quivers and forgets to breathe. There’s something very wrong and unnerving with the him and a Cas-like Leviathan meddling in between his legs configuration. Dean looks down on the whole problematic situation and finds another issue growing. Leviathan smirks at that and Dean turns away, face red.

“I’d appreciate you not commenting.”

So he doesn’t. Instead of making any remark, he grabs the cast and squeezes until it all covers thickly in cracks. A moment later, Dean can feel something tingling, making its way beneath the broken material. He’s tempted to look back and see what that is, so with still tightly closed eyes, he begins to turn his head again.

“I would not recommend that, Lot’s wife,” the Leviathan warns Dean and he stops, but feels and hears parts of the cast crumbling and falling on the wooden floor. He ignores the warning in the end and opens his eyes.

Dean doesn’t know what he expected to see, to be honest, but what he gets is the sight of his leg being entangled with dozens of black, tiny, slick tentacles coming out of the cuff of the monster’s shirt, enthusiastically making their way in and out of the broken plaster. He strains himself from jerking the leg right away.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Didn’t expect that one coming.

“I told you so, Dean,” he sighs and proceeds to remove loose fragments of Dean’s cast with his hand. He pats Dean’s thigh with the other and adds, “that’s nothing.”

Dean finds it more scary than reassuring and he gulps.

“You’ve got some pretty fucked up definition of nothing.”

The Leviathan shrugs.

“Quite sensitive, aren’t you, Dean? I’ll keep that in mind for future reference.”

“Yeah, well, it’s just that it’s not something I would expect to see coming out of Ca-“ Dean starts and in the final moment, stops himself from saying anything and making a point. He’s not touching this subject. He’s not.  He clears his throat immediately. “Okay,” he spits out in a trembling voice as a poor excuse of a conclusion.

For whatever reason, the Leviathan is polite enough not to push it as well – this very once Dean is actually grateful – and attempts to change the topic.

“So, where are we going?” he asks.

“We’re…” Dean begins and just after he understands the full meaning of the question, “oh, no. You’re not going anywhere, pal,” he cuts.

The chomper groans, discontent.

“What good are you off alone in this state?” he ponders and removes the remains of that cast, brushes the dust off of Dean’s naked, vulnerable and still quite stiff leg.

Dean swallows hard and fights a sudden urge to take the leg away, mixed with a contrasting one, telling him to relax and lean into the touch.

“You are not going and that’s final.”

“I’m not asking for your permission, Dean. I’m merely asking for the plan.”

“No!” Dean groans, tired with it like parent is with an annoying brat in a toy store. “I don’t even need you here, so why the hell would I need you there?! I’ve had enough of you for the last damn month.”

“Dean,” he pushes, or rather warns, judging from his serious, sharp tone.

“What?!” Dean sighs, exhausted.

“If you won’t let me come with you, I’ll spend the time traveling around the nearby human settlements, devouring both the elderly and infants.”

“No, you won’t,” Dean scowls.

“Test me,” he replies with conviction, smiling as creepily as nothing in this world ever should, especially not while wearing Cas’s face. He’s going there again, isn’t he? Dean curses at himself. Curses at everything. Curses at his fucking miserable life.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Dean asks, but only gets a disinterested shrug in reply. “Fine,” Dean decides, hating himself for it. “I’ll grab a less suspiciously torn pair of pants and we’re off,” he says and exhales all the air he’s been trying to hold. He gets up and tries to limp weakly towards his bag. When he takes out the first spare pair of jeans and heads to the bathroom to change, he turns away one last time and says: “get in loser, we’re going shopping.”

But the Leviathan only raises his brow in sheer confusion. And Dean thinks that it’s not only just going to be a fucking bore of a ride, but that also happens to be the one damn similarity too far.

*

When they check into Sam’s motel room under some smooth excuse – or rather – Dean does, since apparently the shady fucker chose to remain invisible to friggin everyone, but to him – it’s a continuation of the silence from the whole damn ride. Dean doesn’t know what to say and it’s not like he’s got a reason to, so he checks on the fridge instead, finds a few beers there and an additional whiskey bottle on the table as well and decides to drink as much as he can – because Sam doesn’t deserve the alcohol prize this time – before hitting the limit of passing out and no longer being able to kick Sammy’s ass.  Now that would be something Sam fucking deserves.

Leviathan is sitting small and inconspicuous on the edge of the bed and keeps staring back at Dean with a  pained expression. And Dean, more than half of his whiskey in, can’t help but notice how stunningly alike Cas and this dick look when they seem to be hurting. Maybe because he wants to kill some time or maybe he’s curious about what’s the fucking case this time, he blurts out: “and what is your fucking problem?”

“It is disturbingly unpleasant for me to see you like this,” he admits unsurely, as if shocked by his own answer – or further – by his own emotions.

“Well, fuck you,” Dean retorts, pours himself another glass and takes it all in within one swig and a bitter frown. “’S your fault.”

“You’re angry,” the monster notices.

“You’re the smartest bitch in the pack, congratulations,” Dean spits out furiously.

“Dean,” he sighs heavily, but gets no reaction other than the pained grimace on Dean’s face contorting even further into despair. “Dean, come here,” he tries once more and pats the bed.

“No,” Dean barks, but he actually, despite of everything that he fucking knows better, stands up and weakly makes his way towards the fucking Not-Cas Cas.

“Sit,” he demands as he pulls Dean down to the bed and cautiously takes the glass away out of his hand. Dean sits and says nothing. The monster takes Dean’s jacket off and throws it on a nearby chair. Dean doesn’t protest. “You shouldn’t be doing this, it’s not going to help you cope. You keep on drinking, who’s going to take care of your brother? Who is going to take care of you, Dean? Just let me help you,” he says as he settles right behind Dean and begins to subtly stroke his tensed back, those words spoken softly with this distinct worry in his voice that Dean remembers from the night when Cas asked him, just as softly, if he doesn’t believe he deserved to be saved. It stings. He looks at the one who said it this time, and seeing that face, it hurts more.

“Why the fuck would you care?” Dean murmurs with pain, voice gruff and shattered like glass, eyes shining with agony, glued desperately to the that fake face he so dearly misses.

“I remember him caring,” he answers honestly and doesn’t look away. “It became my problem to care. Although I did not want to,” he sighs, as if ashamed of his own weakness.

“Funny,” Dean lets out a horribly broken laugh. “Could’ve said the same bout me and him, you know,” he begins, even though he’s not even sure why he says any of this, and the Leviathan listens. “Didn’t want to care. Caring is losing, you know. But the son of a bitch kept coming back – he, of all people – to me,” Dean remembers to inhale and takes air in with a wheeze before finding the courage to go on. “And he’s just grown on me, okay? I mean, every time he kept comin back, one way or nother, and,” he pauses, then sighs.  The Leviathan is stroking his neck in a soothing manner, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even nod – just stares at him with a parted mouth and pained, compassionate eyes. For a moment they both just breathe in silence and unison, their faces so achingly close Dean can feel the moist and river’s scent of the monster’s breath and he becomes aware that he would need to lean just a little bit in to find closure. He’s not sure what he’s doing anymore. And who is he seeing. “I was pissed, you know, I was so damn pissed,” he explains to the monster’s mouth. “But I hoped he’d come back this time as well. Like he always did. I’d kick his fucking ass, I swear to God, but later, you know, one day I think we’d be good,” Dean sighs. “But instead, you fucking show up,” he cringes. “You and your I wanna be good crap – and all of it because of what – cause you remember? A stolen fuckin memory – that’s all what you are?” Dean shakes his head, confused, and grabs the monster by the lapels of his suit and asks “You look like him, talk like him, sometimes you fucking act like him – what the hell am I supposed to do with you, man?”

The Leviathan leans in and sighs lightly, causing a warm puff of air brush through Dean’s trembling lips.

“Stop crying,” he coos as he attempts to lock the distance between their mouths entirely and Dean stiffens, panicked, anxious, waiting – he’s not sure which, really. But he doesn’t find out cause it doesn’t happen – Dean hears the unmistakable roar of his Impala and he jumps away off the bed as if he just got violently burnt. He’s breathing heavily as he’s tries to process what he had just allowed to transpire – it’s so shamefully idiotic the guilt and anger sober him up a little, enough to recall that at this moment, punching Sam in the dick is top priority.

So he makes a variation of that move right after he hears the keys rambling in the lock.

“Howdy, Sam,” he greets his brother knocked out on the porch. “New rule. You steal my Baby, you get punched,” he informs as they come in a moment later and glances around subtly to see if the Leviathan is still there, which he is, leaning against the wall, watching them with curiosity. “The hell were you thinking, Sam? Running off like that?” and Sam seems to ignore both him and the monster he probably doesn’t even see either way, as he gets himself a beer to soothe his aching head. And damn, he loves the kid but he had that coming. “I mean, for all I know, Satan could have been callin your plains!” Dean goes on.

“Dean, look, how many times do I have to tell you? I'm fine,’” Sam cuts in, tired with having to go through all of this all over again.

“Oh, yeah, no, you're a poster boy for mental health. You have any idea the kind of horror shows I had going on in my head?!” Dean burns with rage, bitter sarcasm leaking through his voice, even though he intended to be reasonable about it in the first place, he can’t.  The Leviathan squints at those words and frowns, shaking his head. But it’s not Dean’s thing right now or at all to straight this up and inform that it ain’t about his touchy, pansy ass this time. He’s got more important things to deal with than a pouty ballerina and honestly, he should fucking keep it that way.

“Dean, I left you a note,” Sam tries to explain. “There was a job in town – a Kitsune.”

“Yeah, no. I know,” Dean cuts sharply before his brother can try to pull any kind of move on him that’d be supposed to ease him off. Not gonna happen. “And you ignore Bobby and I's phone calls why, exactly?” he reminds Sam harshly.

“Because I wanted to take care of it. And I did. I took care of it,” he tries to assure.

Yeah, and Dean wants many things in his damn life as well, but it sure doesn’t mean people are entitled to do bad shit only because they want to. It’s not that easy. Dean agrees with Mick Jagger on this one.

“Really?” he huffs.

“Yes.”

“Where's the body?” Dean insists.

“There is no body,” Sam says and Dean fails to process this information. He can see the chomper turning his attention directly to Sam and staring at him with amused curiosity. It feels off to see that thing glaring at his brother at all, but it’s not his biggest problem at this moment, is it.

“Why not?”

“Because I let her go. She's gone.”

“You what?!” he scowls, disbelieving his own ears. “Why?!”

Okay, now it’s something Dean really can’t fucking grasp. The Leviathan is making this shocked “oooooooooh!” sound and begins to cackle and mutter something that resembles “oh, that sounds familiar” only to continue with this laughing asshole fit of his, which is not helping, to say the very least, and he really wants to throw shit at him to make him shut the hell up, but for obvious reasons he can’t do that right now. But if he’s gonna go on like this, Dean swears to God, he might actually have to break the fucking ‘don’t injure invisible stalkers when there’s people” rule.

*

On the next day that follows a long and exhausting night spent curled up on the floor in a he plus furniture configuration that did not allow any Leviathans to join, after making an excuse to Sam and driving off to fix what his sentiment-blinded brother fucked up, Christmas is pretty fast over, as his  third wheel of a companion figures it is okay again to open his bold pie hole.

“You aren’t going to get your medicine, are you?”

“Of course I’m not, damn it. You’ve heard that phone call so if you’re sharp enough, you’ll know where we’re going,” Dean groans.

“Why did you lie to your brother, Dean?”

“What – now you’re playing my conscience?” he snorts.

“I don’t care about the situation’s moral implications, I just know you’re going to feel bad about it later on,” the Leviathan sighs. “And you’ll do stupid things.”

“Yeah, you’re a stupid thing,” Dean barks back automatically and gets an eye-roll for his not that witty comment. “He lied to me first and he still fucked up the job! And he’s got the nerve to tell me he’s fine. Saving monsters, seeing things – and he’s fiiine.”

“And are you fine, then?” the chomper bitch snaps for no apparent reason.

“Shut up.”

“You’re going to do the wrong thing, Dean,” he warns.

“Sounds like something a stupid thing would say.”

For a few minutes, they continue to ride in uneasy silence. Thank God the Kitsune’s house is not that far. But Dean doesn’t fool himself for long. He knows that once the job is done, he’s going to get bitched at because of some kind of nonsense monster solidarity. Still, it’s better to get that than hearing any of it from Sam.

Dean parks his Baby nearby. The remaining distance they have to walk. Dean realizes it felt better when he had a row of seats separating him from the Leviathan. It’s uncomfortable to have him following this close. But it seems that Dean’s alone with his opinion what’s comfortable and what isn’t, since a dumb question comes immediately after they break into the house.

“Can I ride in the front on the way back?”

“No, you cannot,” is the annoyed answer.

“I don’t like the backseat,” he explains gloomily.

“You didn’t complain about it yesterday,” Dean notices as he sits down on the couch, wishing he could wait through this in fucking silence.

“It was a different car, Dean,” he insists. “I don’t take the backseat here very well,” he whines and sits down next to Dean.

“And I don’t take you very well, either,” Dean snarls. “You say shit about my Baby, bitch, and you walk.”

The Leviathan considers this for a moment. “I can travel on the roof, then” he sighs, visibly defeated.

“What?! No! You’re gonna dent her in, you heavy fuck! Go in the trunk if my back seat doesn’t fucking please you enough, princess.”

“The trunk is precisely the reason why I cannot travel in the backseat!” the monster rages at the top of his lungs, hissing and showing Dean a set of disturbingly long and sharp teeth.

“And why is that?!” Dean shouts back, equally unnerved.

“You should know better,” the Leviathan turns to face Dean and venomously whispers into his ear.

And suddenly Dean remembers. More than that, he actually understands why he thought Impala becoming a traveling coffin was good in the first place. So he could take Cas anywhere he went to. So wherever he would have gone, Cas would have followed. The real one, not this shit here. Dean feels disgusted because of the sole fact of having the damn thing sat next to him, tainting both his and Cas’s memory.

“You don’t like competition, do you?” he hisses at the monster through gritted teeth.

“And am I competing, Dean?” the Leviathan asks mockingly and breaks into a bitter laugh. “Just competing? You see, I am not sure, but I suppose that it is safe to assume you have been still sober enough to recall,” he begins and gets a grossed out grimace from Dean, “that last evening I was winning and we were, as you would say, in the middle of something” he murmurs.

“Forget it!” Dean snaps. “There’s no we, okay? And there was no middle, no nothing,” he growls menacingly.

The asshole smiles at him mockingly. “Always nothing until it happens,” he hums.

And that’s why you kill monsters, Sam – Dean thinks as he forces a tighter grip on his knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from:  
> Tina Turner - "What's love"
> 
> also mentioned:  
> Sinead O'Connor - "Nothing compares 2u"


	9. IX.

**IX**

**“lost in the night, don’t wanna struggle and fight. There’s someone who needs you”**

Everything seems to remain this unsolvable status quo since Bozeman. Now, Dean is not sure what he expected to get, but he was certain there would be something. Either the chomper revealing himself to everyone else, or stopping showing up and bothering him when there are other people present. Dean was afraid that back at the red-barn trial, he would manifest himself in all his motherfucking glory as the final witness. That would have been the perfect combo: he’d spill both stuff about Cas and the truth about Amy. Dean really, really expected that shoe to drop. But the guy just stood there, face frowning, arms crossed and kept rolling his eyes at him as if he was supposed to know shit better.

So when after everything is done and Dean manages to make it through another shitty night, he hits a bar again and this time, he flat out informs the chomper he’s going, too. He doesn’t have to say it twice. He finds a secluded corner where he trusts people won’t see him talking to himself and attempts to conduct an investigation, whispering with a barely open mouth, hoping to get his voice and presence drowned within the sound of Grace Jones’s low notes echoing through the speakers.

“So what’s your stupid point this time?” Dean demands. “First you said something along the lines of not bothering me in public, and yet, you just keep going all Libertango on me.”

“I keep doing what?” the Leviathan knits his brows in confusion.

“Oh, you know what,” Dean groans. “Strange, hangin round my door, strange shadowin my home, strange being a visible and palpable dick all out the sudden, all the time.”

“Well…” the monster offers a really vicious smile, “it seems, that you are very skilled in deflecting, avoiding and pretending that you do not see your problem. It occurred to me that perhaps I should not be taking the chance to shine away from you if you like it so much,” he sneers in a falsely sweet note.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean spits. “You’re aiming to be a dick or a shrink now?”

The Leviathan snorts in reply. “Whichever would help you more at a given moment,” he shrugs.

“You know I need none of this from you.”

“I know quite the opposite, Dean,” he sighs. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“By pushing me deeper into the puddle of crazy? This is what they call helping these days?!”

“No, I want you to admit that you have a problem.”

“Yeah. You,” Dean hisses bitterly.

The monster considers this for a moment. “To some extent, yes,” he agrees. “But you know this would have been incomparably easier if you stopped running away from the subject and drowning it with this,” he says, pointing at Dean’s beer.

“There is no subject,” Dean mutters. “Give it a break, will you.”

“The only thing I will do is breaking you out of this lie,” the monster says with disturbingly calm conviction.

“Yeah, you will go fuck yourself,” Dean mocks, feeling unnerved, and rolls his eyes, taking another sip of his beer, expecting to have the conversation over, since a little rude fuck you is the thing that usually cuts things for the day.

“Yes, I will,” the Leviathan unexpectedly snaps and Dean can feel the venom dripping out of that stupid mouth. “But I’m going to use you as the tool of my choice, Dean Winchester,” he groans, abruptly leaves the table and walks out of the bar like he’s pissed off Tyra Banks storming through the catwalk or something.

Dean, left alone at his table, pulls a surprised frown in defense of his “yeah, whatever” self, but all the same, he swallows hard and takes the entire remaining beer in one swig, because at this point he isn’t sure whether that was still on the side of empty butt-hurt threats or did they this time make it into the no-noland of solemn, wrathful promises. He honestly doesn’t know what is he supposed to do about it. One moment he’s dealing with an overprotective old cat-lady, and the next one he’s messing with a dick-craving embodiment of a pain in the ass, who every now and then decides to throw the insulted glory bitch fit. Each of those situations calls for a different reaction on his part, but he’s lost like Harrison Ford in “Frantic” in the crazy dance they are apparently having, because somehow, Dean always keeps hitting the wrong buttons and fuels the asshole’s fire instead of putting it out. He kind of begins to think the stupid chomper doesn’t know what he’s doing, either. Jesus, Dean realizes suddenly, he better not be one of those guys who eat away their problems, because this would really, really, really increase the uncalled for body count in Dearborn, if not in entire Michigan. He takes a minute or two to reconsider his strategy and once he’s got a plan, he leaves the bar as well. Luckily, the Leviathan is in the Impala, not elsewhere, eating people like they’re the monster equivalent of a broken-hearted girl’s ice cream. Maybe, he’s on a diet, Dean nonsensically thinks as he approaches the car. But then again, he muses, maybe he’s the ice cream. Jesus, well, that would explain just too much.

Of course, Dean’s first instinctive reaction upon seeing the pouty-face occupying the shotgun is wanting to send him straight to the fucking backseat, but he withholds himself in time. This wouldn’t be the right thing to do at this moment if he wants to not get de-hymenated. Or what’s more important, if he doesn’t want any poor fucks to become the midnight snack.

“Hey,” Dean clears his throat when he sits down behind the wheel. “Got no sweets, so just take this,” he says and handles the chomper a bottle of flavored vodka.

Instead of taking it, he only squints at it warily. “Are you that drunk, Dean?” He decides to ask after a moment of both the bottle and the offer lingering awkwardly between them, untouched.

“Nah,’” Dean groans, dismissing the question. “Come on, take it.”

“What is your agenda?” the Leviathan inquires, voice thick with suspicion.

Frankly, this is a very good question, Dean thinks. This is the only idea he got within fifteen seconds and he’s pretty much trying to figure the problem out as they go.

“It can’t be fair if I’m the only one mildly inebriated,” he tries. “Too sober people are too pissy?” Dean hints.

“Yes” the monster nods and considers the issue for a moment. “I’ve had the pleasure to notice” he says, staring at Dean tiredly.

Fuck, Dean thinks, he just shot himself in the foot, didn’t he. “Okay,” he says, trying to dismiss the implication. “Just give it a try,” he encourages and receives the most awkwardly confused look so far.

 The monster is staring at him as if he had, well, either twenty eyes or twenty dicks. Might be a combination of the two. Either way, Dean seems to be the most unthinkable and impossible thing in the history of all creation. And if Dean wants to be honest, it hurts him a little because it’s the look from the past, the one Cas used to give him in that bittersweet mixture of affection, regret, curiosity and disbelief. The monster’s face softens, and instinctively, Dean replies to that dearly missed warmth with a smile before he even knows it.

The monster lets out a small sigh and drinks the whole beverage in one take for conclusion.

“How did it feel like?” Dean asks.

“It did not,” comes the answer. “If any effects on my current state of intoxication is what you’re interested in.”

Dean shrugs. He’s got no idea what’s he interested in. “I don’t know. Did that at least taste like anything to you?”

“Why, yes. I noted something distinct,” the chomper muses, “but I don’t know what it is. I never got the time to get accustomed to flavors, at least not personally.”

“Cherry cordial,” Dean casually informs.

“Cherry?” the monster asks, too excitedly to be worth the emotions, in Dean’s opinion. “Were there other flavors?” he inquires.

“Yes,” Dean sighs heavily.

 “You picked out cherry?”

“Yes,” he groans this time, exasperated. “Is that another problem to you?” he nearly barks.

“No,” the Leviathan says softly and stares at Dean as if he hung the fucking moon or something. “Thank you, Dean,” he adds after another uneasy moment of silence.

“Don’t think I’m going to spoil you or buy you chocolate, kid,” Dean warns. “I just don’t want you to sink your monster tears into some poor fucker’s throat. Are we clear?”

The chomper thinks for a second or two before replying. “I won’t attack people because you make me angry,” he decides to say in the end.

“Okay,” Dean says before waking his Baby’s engine. That’s a start, he thinks.

“But don’t make me angry, Dean,” he hears a tired voice. “Please.”

He only exhales heavily and otherwise remains silent.

That’s the most pathetic exchange of apologies he’s ever been a part of.

*

 

Dean wakes up abruptly and feels a weight lingering softly on his chest and stomach as he nearly jumps out of the motel bed. Sam’s one is empty already and this very once, Dean is grateful for it. This isn’t something he would want his brother to see. He’s already getting too intense on trying to fix him in places that cannot be his to mend. He reaches for the bottle from his nightstand but sadly, it’s completely empty. Well, he must have drank a lot last night, after all. If the dryness of his throat and a noticeable headache aren’t enough indicators of that being true, the fact that he, again, allowed the Leviathan to rest on the same fucking bed is more than enough of a proof. There has been a never said out loud agreement between them that started right after killing the Kitsune. There isn’t any dubious touching and the problem is never even brought up by the lights of day. Dean thinks it is very unfortunate that it has to happen at all, so when it does – beforehand he just keeps drinking until he doesn’t find it in himself to bother anymore. At least he doesn’t have the damn thing anywhere near Sammy. He’s not dragging his poor brother into this dirt. So if this is the price he has to pay in exchange – he grits his teeth, swallows and delivers.

“It’s just a nightmare, Dean,” he hears a still sleep-worn voice right behind his back.

And this little detail, Dean has to admit, is something actually bearable in the whole inconvenience. At first, he was just lying there, blue, creeping eyes wide open, staring at him throughout the entire night, and even having his back turned, he could feel that gaze deep beneath his skin. So naturally, in defense of the remains of his sanity, Dean bitched something along the lines of the question if the chomper and his fucking kin don’t need to sleep at all and suggested finding out through personal experience. Of course, whatever Dean asks, always seems to be seriously and thoroughly considered before being answered, so he had learned that, well, he’s apparently keeping the monster constantly unfed and also that both Cas and Dean’s taint mixed with separation from his hungry-face Addams family are making him weak as fuck in comparison with your general black-blooded creeper, so he figured that he might as well try to regenerate his resources through the humiliating, mortal way. And Dean needed to know none of this, because for a second there, he almost felt sorry for the slimy fuckball. Almost. Whatever. At least he did stop digging tunnels into Dean’s freaking everything with those sacrilegious eyes of his. Not his, technically. That’s why they’re sacrilegious in the first place. They’re Cas’s. Cas’s, Cas’s, Cas’s, Dean mocks himself for venturing too deep again. He’s already had Cas to come back and haunt him in the skyless, flooding cavern of his sleeping mind. That’s enough.

“You’re just a nightmare,” he retorts gruffly without much thought.  Staring bitterly at his empty bottle, he adds, “I need a refill.”

The tentacles that were loosely threaded around his legs and chest immediately retreat and for a moment, Dean feels less dirty.

“Must have happened while I was asleep,” he hears. “I apologize.”

“It’s not about that, so whatever,” Dean says hoarsely upon getting up. Without glancing behind even once, he heads right into the other, slightly more kitchen-like segment of the rented room. He needs something to do and to drink, now. Otherwise the nightmare is going to swallow him whole.

“Is it the dream that keeps tormenting you?” the Leviathan asks as he approaches Dean and eventually plops his fucking ass down the  nearby coffee table. And Dean notices he must have already mojo’d his ass back into cleanliness. He isn’t sure if that’s something chompers can do or is it a really stupid and rude way to make use of the remains of Cas’s power, but Dean doesn’t bother with putting a stop to it. That would mean sharing showers with the bitch since there wouldn’t be a way to explain the water running while he and Sam are in the room, so he’s not signing up for it in this life.

“Thanks to your aunties, uncles and of course – your fucking face, my dreams aren’t exactly nice these days,” Dean snarls as he turns the laptop on and pours himself a glass of scotch, which became his new coffee quite a while ago. “So whatever I’m sorry you’re planning to puke, just drop it, cause it ain’t gonna cut it,” he warns.

“You need a distraction,” the Leviathan says flatly.

“Not one of your making, I don’t,” Dean spits and takes a few, throat-burning, greedy gulps.

He stares into the words on the computer screen and takes an occasional sip until the still vivid images of Amy, Sam and Cas, his Cas, the real, honest dead Cas and his determined, pain-contorted face, blur out of his immediate consciousness.

He fucking saw his face and his feeling of betrayal reflecting in the Kitsune’s shocked eyes.

As if Dean was the one that backstab him as unexpectedly as he pushed a knife into Amy. As if he were the one that killed Cas. No. No, he’s not going there.

“Fuck!” Dean roars furiously and hopelessly kicks the opposite chair, earning himself a worried look from the monster, who decides to get up from his spot and put the fucking piece of shit chair back into its former asshole place.

“Dean?” he starts, leaning slightly into his direction from behind the furniture.

But Dean won’t even look back at him. He fucking can’t. He can’t and he won’t.

“Get the fuck out of my direct sight,” he mutters, raw anger trembling in his fury-tightened throat.

Keeping his head low, Dean cannot  technically see it, but the Leviathan retreats to the previously occupied table, staring at him with so much passionate wrath he can still feel it piercing through his bones. And honestly, at this point Dean thinks probably even the monster himself isn’t sure if he doesn’t jump at him only because he can sense Sam already approaching, or if there is an additional mystery to his unnatural calmness keeping him in place despite of his hands and teeth tingling and beckoning to do otherwise.

 

Soon enough, when Dean already has his research done, mind dulled to a neutral state and the previously half full bottle empty with its content radiating obliterating warmth around his stomach, Sam storms into the room, content with himself like it’s Christmas and smelly like sweaty fucking balls.

Dean of course takes his chance to point that out and fine – maybe he gets a reference wrong, but since when does he care about sports – oh, right, he doesn’t; and his point is still valid and as such, it stands. So when he refers the info on what is a potential job, and he has to admit, Prosperity has a nice ring to it, Sam agrees it’s case material, which is good. But when Dean hopes Sam will go and take a shower, Sam does exactly what Dean hopes Sam wouldn’t do. And it is very much bad.

“You know, one more thing. What's going on with you?” he asks.

“We have had this conversation, Sam,” Dean huffs, looking down to break the eye contact for a moment to return with the full glory of a patronizing frown.

“No, we haven't. See, to do that, you'd have to, uh, sort of... speak,” Sam insists.

“Okay, let's see if you can get this straight,” Dean starts and scratches his nose. “See, you're -- you're new Sam, right, Lance Armstrong,” he gesticulates, putting an emphasis on the obviously praise-worthy whatever that is that Sam’s having.

“Biking,” Sam says. But Dean ignores the correction as much as he tries to dismiss the whole subject.

“And, uh -- and I'm still me, okay? All right, so -- so, you might see things different now, uh -- call it a runner's high or some crap,” he pauses.  “But that doesn't mean that something's going on with me, okay?” he concludes, putting on a too well-crafted smile.

And Sam knows that one just too damn well. It’s the smile for the crowd, the thanks m’aam kind of crap and, Jesus, Dean could at least not be that rude when he’s trying to help. Sam is so pissed he doesn’t see the point of prolonging this nonsense conversation, nor he feels like interacting with Dean right now. He decides to get that shower.

“Yeah, okay,” he says with cold courtesy.

“No, don't say, yeah, okay, like, yeah, okay," Dean suddenly considers himself offended.

“Yeah, okay,” his brother replies in a deliberately bitchy voice and walks away just like that. Dean finds it unthinkable. He reaches out for his glass again, but after a moment decides to put it down and finally looks into the chomper’s direction instead.

Said monster is still on the table, extremely occupied with emitting an empty stare into the space ahead of him, which happens to be as far from Dean’s general area as it only can. He’s either endlessly constipated or endlessly pissed for whatever stupid reason it is this time, making himself appear glorious and mysterious like he’s fucking homonalisa.

“Well, that was quite pulling a diva for a dude smelling that much like a hobo, huh?” he tries, sounding casually amused, aiming to test the waters.

“Yeah, okay,” comes the commentary flawlessly mirroring Sam’s ice cold nonchalant denial of contact. Pissed it is, then. Bad waters ahead.

Great, it’s hardly lunch time and he’s already the ugly one. He wonders what else today can become his fault. At least the ride to Prosperity is going to be damn quiet, Dean thinks.

*

The ride to Prosperity is too damn quiet, Dean decides. Sam had already dropped the cold shoulder treatment. Maybe the shower made him feel better, maybe he thinks Dean’s so much of a fucking stubborn kid it isn’t worth it. Dean doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. It’s not that tense here, in the front row, but Dean keeps nervously staring back and forth into the rear mirror every now and then and concludes that it is necessary to resort to turning his music on with almost full volume. Sam offers a confused and displeased frown regarding the sudden change. But it’s not for Sam. It’s for the pouty bitch in the backseat.

Through the courtesy of the damn mirror, he knows he’s restlessly being glared at with something that either is supposed to convey stabbing him in the chest with sixty knives or stabbing him in every durable hole with a thick, throbbing dick. Maybe it’s both. Dean would like to retort with a very insulting and demeaning wink, but there’s Sam, so he can only hope his music will do as fine for the witty comeback. Mama Joplin serves the crybaby just right. Putting the song on, Dean smiles to himself victoriously. Getting a  ‘this-is-the-highest-fucking-insult-Dean-Winchester’ reaction out of the chomper immediately, he snorts out loud before he can stop himself.

“What?” Sam asks equally worried and confused.

“Oh, nothing, Sammy,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Just imagine pissing someone off with this song, it’s comedy gold.”

“Yeah,” Sam huffs unsurely. “Right, Dean.”

And while Sam actually believes this might be true for the first three minutes, he doesn’t believe it a bit overall. Because Dean played the song on loop for the remaining three hours of the ride.

And he grinned. Into the mirror. For three hours.

 

When they arrive to the most recent vic’s sister’s current location, Dean suddenly declines to partake in the questioning. Says he’ll go to the beauty salon instead. Sam eyes the poor woman discreetly and very soon, a heavy, painful realization hits him. This has to be the only reason. And if it is, dear God, things are worse than Sam thought so far. She’s wearing a familiarly looking tan, long coat. She’s just wearing the damn coat. That’s her only guilt. And Dean didn’t even bother to leave the car.

*

After dropping Sam off, Dean doesn’t get much further than to the next curve. He witnesses his Baby being hijacked by an angry tentacle hitting at her brakes with full force.

“What the fuck?” Dean groans, turning his head around when the car is already put to a complete halt.

The Leviathan doesn’t say a word, he simply opens the door and leaves, just like that. So Dean, in a rush, parks Baby on the sidewalk and gets out as well. But before he can express his opinion on this monkey-fuck stupid circus, he gets his back getting forcefully slammed into a nearby store’s unwelcoming wall. The sudden change is so unexpected Dean blinks, dazed. Next thing he sees is teeth. Lots of them. More than he’s willing to count. He registers a pair of heavy hands keeping him pinned and a clash of hips against his own. Teeth make place for a stern, cold face looming portentously over his own. Dean knows his skin is being either torn off or burnt out with those eyes.

“I am far too patient with you, Dean Winchester,” comes the icily articulated complaint. “I bear with your madness when there is no one else left capable of bearing with it,” the monster hisses. “I was brought to life in a tidal wave of the corruption of your soul. I was many, but I became a rotting limb,” he wails. “A rotting limb that exists to heal you and yet,” he snarls and leans his fury-driven mouth closer, “you reward me with nothing but insults, upon insults, upon insults,” the Leviathan finally pauses and Dean swallows hard.

He’d like to say something in exchange, most likely something very rude, but he doesn’t even try to think what should he say. He won’t. Moving his lips in any fucking way is too dangerous. They’re so damn close that even breathing alone makes him risk unwanted contact. So he doesn’t breathe at all.

“So tell me, Dean,” comes the madness-threaded chant of a whisper, followed by a palm painfully cupping his face and lifting Dean’s chin up forcefully, getting him even more vulnerable and revealed, “do you want me,” the monster menacingly muses further as he presses his knee into Dean, causing direct contact to the land behind the weak wall of his slacks and lifts his other hand to scratch lightly at his pulsating, uncovered throat, “to insult you?” he asks, almost innocently, with a voice so soft it’s terrifying and nauseating all at once. Everything in Dean stops, petrified. This is the most intimidating and in far too many ways most alarming question that ever had the chance to hit him. It’s not the wording. It’s in the tone, in the smile, in the eyes, in their boiling madness. He hopes there will never come a day he wears a smile like this one.

Dean is too startled and repulsed to say anything at all. And it must have been a bad answer, because right away the Leviathan grabs him by the lapels and lifts only to slam against the wall again with even greater force and ferocity, flat out screaming this time.

“Do you want me to insult you?!”

Dean bounces away from the wall like a ball and he can hear something in his back cracking. His bones are fucking burning, head is dulled with the sharp pain provided by the impact, he rests it on his shoulder and lets out a weak, pained groan as the withheld air is violently hit out of him. Only then the monster seems to come back to his senses, taken aback by that sound as if it were a cold shower to get him sober from whatever unholy rage that inebriated his thick, black blood.

Still holding Dean against the wall, he takes in the damage he had done and becomes aware that he nearly destroyed this flimsy human porcelain of his. Dean struggles to regain balance in his breath and the Leviathan can feel its moist warmth as he smoothly runs his palm down Dean’s cheek, where pink marks after his iron grip still linger, burning both of them. He buries his face in Dean’s rapidly, painfully rising and falling chest, and hums into his heartbeat, shaking his head. He cracked the porcelain. He hurt the rosy little doll. And there’s the dust of the shattered pottery beneath his fingers. Dean’s reddened skin cuts into him like splinters.

“Dean, just don’t…” he wails into Dean’s aching chest. “Don’t…” he repeats shakily over and over again, threat and power gone, reducing himself to nothing but a concerto of shivers, that match Dean’s own trembling, but still doesn’t let him go. “Don’t ever again” he finally lifts his head and says with an uneven voice that is so full of terror and conviction that it is equally begging and threatening in its intent. His eyes are open wide when he kisses Dean’s forehead fiercely and fails to pull away for far too long, only causing Dean to cringe even deeper in disgust. He finally takes a few steps back and releases Dean from the leash of his limbs, but not from the one of his eyes.

Dean spits loathingly right in front of him and without a word, limps towards Impala’s trunk to retrieve a new suit jacket. This one is ruined. He wishes he could take out a new spine, too.

He stiffens as he feels a hand resting on his shoulder and the weight of the chomper’s presence looming over him from behind. He registers a touch of soft, featherlike lips on the back of his neck, right above his collar. His weary body grows taut and alarmed once more.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he hears him speak, Cas’s voice all over again. “In my right mind, I would never –“

Hearing this, Dean turns around slowly, and shaking his head, with a pained face and eyes full of despair, he says, “You don’t have a right mind.”

And maybe he doesn’t have one, too – Dean thinks. Because instead of stabbing him, hitting him, driving away and leaving the bitch to rot until he figures out how to kill it, he stands there in front of the Cas-faced tragedy still, devoid of personal space, devoid of pride and solutions. “You’re ill,” he whispers with repulsion to the monster and to himself alike. “So many things wrong with you,” he admits, “so many damn things wrong you shouldn’t be able to breathe.”

“Don’t say that,” the Leviathan coos and gently pulls Dean into himself, placing a kiss on his mouth to which Dean replies with nothing. He doesn’t kiss back. He doesn’t writhe away, either. The monster mouth makes a small, wet sound as it pulls away and all there’s left is the indescribable tingling on Dean’s lips.  Whatever the moment was, it was shorter than the forehead one. And now it’s gone.

*

The curious case of the lady who burned herself into a Chewbacca-head passes rather silently in terms of Dean – Leviathan communication. The only thing that transpires is Dean having to explain what a Chewbacca even is and how that relates to the subject, which instantly makes him regret blurting out that useless comment in the first place. Presented explanation gets accepted without any further demands and they return to the policy of not involving themselves in any form of contact. Contact is something they apparently both got enough of for today and for reasons that Dean thinks it for both sides could be summed up as feeling of shame and failure, they decide not to mention the incident that proved them to be whole new jars of crazy. So instead of gracing the monster with his attention, he chooses to focus on his surroundings – because he’s on a job. And that’s what he does on the job. Cause that’s what he’s good for. Soon, he finds an old, suspicious coin and obviously he knows what kind of crap he’s about to deal with. Damn, he hates witches. 

As the Leviathan and he walk back to the car – because for whatever reason neither of them wanted to feel confined with the claustrophobic proximity it would put them in, therefore they walked to the damn spa, keeping a reasonable distance away from each other for damn once – Dean passes the news to Sam, knowing that his brother will further give it to Bobby. While talking on the phone, he notices a liquor store beaming like a beacon and he gets a brilliant idea. He buys himself another whiskey and a small flask, pours in as much as it can contain and gulps in a few mouthfuls as if was water on a hot, airless day. And maybe it is, Dean muses as he puts the bottle into the glove box. His mouth is still filthy from that touch and he needs it clean, needs the sensation burned out. He needs it off more than he needs air.

 

They only get enough of free time that it takes them to check into their motel. The game is  very much on, because apparently a guy got himself spread and nailed in all the most likely not sexy ways. Needless to say, he and Sam put their fed attitude back on and the monster follows, well, as his pouty self, with the only difference being his sturgeon face caused by some creepy sadness instead of the more often transpiring irritation. But at least now Dean and his poor old bones know for certain that this chomper here isn’t really that much of a pansy bitch since he doesn’t deal with ice cream. He deals with breaking people, breaking shit and breaking people into shit. So after all, he might be more like him.

Dean decides to talk to the cop while Sam goes to check his mobile little office. For as long as possible, he doesn’t want to be stuck in a little wooden box with the crazy fuck, either. As predicted, the nailing was not sexy at all. There is something slightly above the regular level of disturbing in a dude killed with nails in his eyes and his fucking everywhere in a construction site crapper. As for a guy this well liked, he must’ve had someone to really hate his guts, because really?

Dean looks around and tries to avoid looking at the corpse itself as well as at the monster, who from the very start seems to be examining it too thoroughly with his intense glare. He’s not sure what’s the problem yet, but he knows that there is going to be one soon. Dean catches himself staring at the Leviathan in mild confusion and the guy eventually responds with pointing at the toilet floor.

“There is another one, Dean,” he notions and doesn’t take his eyes away from the body.

Dean nods and picks up the coin only to return to squint at the monster.

“What are you up to?” he asks with suspicion.

“I think you should go and tell Sam about your findings,” the chomper says instead, not looking Dean into the eye.

“I can do that in a moment. Now answer the damn question,” Dean snarls.

“I don’t have to answer to you, Dean.”

“Yes, you fucking do.”

“And why is that?” the monster asks, his voice nearing to the ruthless, cold softness from before and it forces Dean to take a pause and rephrase his next words.

“Is it really that difficult to answer one question? Since I can’t do shit to stop you anyway, for now” he puts an emphasis on the last part, “be a good little dick and at least let me know what kind of crap are you going to pull me in.”

“I am not pulling you into anything,” he goes with the finger commas again and it aches Dean that he cannot slap the bitch for it. “That is why I need you to leave.”

“Fine,” Dean groans. “Then what are you not pulling me in?” he sighs.

“Dean,” the monster tries tiredly.

“What?!” Dean snaps. “You’re going to fuck the guy since you’re really that not willing to tell?! Is that it?! Is this really the kind of sight for you that requires a cock discharge?!” he rants. He feels a fist grabbing him by the collar of his shirt in a subtle warning. He halts his bitch fit and stiffens.

“Dean,” comes a cold word. “I am not going to fuck anything. Calm down” the monster assures and lets Dean’s collar go. “I’m just going to feed.”

“And this is supposed to calm me down how?!” Dean spits furiously.

“You told me I can’t kill humans when I am angry. It’s been a while, Dean,” the Leviathan growls. “You can only think you can let me starve. I’m going to eat whether you like this or not, so you can either join your brother or watch me do it. I’m giving you a choice.”

“How fucking merciful of you, Hannibal,” Dean spits in disgust as he turns around on his heel and walks away to see Sam. He takes another draught from his flask and thinks he’s going to need fucktons, fucktons of toothpaste for the hungry little shit and even more drinks for himself to let this inconvenient knowledge slide.

*

They decide to check the developer – Don Stark – next, since he seems to be the first in line to get hit now, but then Sam gets stupidly pissed about Dean’s stupid flasks and says they’re not doing shit today because Dean is an irresponsible dick drinking in the middle of the job and that he’s not supposed to play fed while reeking of booze and that he shouldn’t fucking drink that much cause he’s ruining himself and Jesus fucking Christ, Dean – stuff like that. Dean hardly pays attention anymore, so he figures that whatever Sam bitched at him last, had to go somewhere along the lines of that. So there it is – they call it a day in the middle of the day. Sam continues with his research, basing on what Bobby gave him and Dean proceeds to drink, disregarding waves upon waves of Sam’s bitch faces. He’s still filthy. He needs himself burned clean.

A few hours later, he’s in bed, slowly drifting into sleep, when he feels a weight drowning into the mattress right behind him. Of course. He tries to ignore this, as usual, but shortly afterwards, a new sensation follows. An arm loosely hung over his back and a palm lightly spread over his stomach. Not on his bare skin, that is. And it’s not even really holding him, speaking in terms of technicalities, but that’s enough to make him skip a breath and tense all over. He’s already sleeping fully clothed. But if it weren’t for Sam and the too warm weather, he’d gladly put on even more layers just to shield from this. Because he knows how to read this gesture. It’s intimidating and possessive. It’s the “you’ve got nowhere to run, darling” kind of I love you. Even if it’s done while the monster’s asleep, it’s alarming as fuck. If it is not conscious, of course.

“Are you asleep?” Dean mutters under his breath.

“I am not,” falls the answer.

*

The next day, Dean flat out informs the Leviathan that he stays in the motel, no buts, because he’s already gotten himself more than his share with that Hitchcock-psycho hand thing. And that Dean would like to get to work on his job, thanks everybody very fuck of a much. The Leviathan considers the not-offer for a moment and decides to reply with a very uncomfortable, small and earnest smile.

“Yes, Dean,” is the even more disturbing confirmation, “with pleasure” the monster says harmlessly. “I will stay right here.”

It is more than fascinating that of all possible options, the chomper muses, looking innocently into Dean’s eyes, Dean chose to tell him to remain within the walls of this room. He didn’t tell him to leave. He demanded him to stay. And Dean will come back to him. Dean is already tangled on his long leash, but on a leash nonetheless. Moreover, he can touch him – as empirically proven – and Dean will do nothing about it. Maybe because he can’t, maybe because he won’t. Maybe because he’s hardly ever completely sober anymore, the Leviathan ponders and the whole mysterious thing stops being this amusing.

“But you be careful, Dean,” he decides to add.

Dean chooses to snort as his final word on the matter and leaves to join Sam, who’s already waiting impatiently in the car.

*

Dean is anything but careful and the job bites him in the ass. Or rather, it throws him around the walls and stings with shit loads of angry bees. Everything because Sam told him to counsel. Yeah, right. Except that, last time he tried to sort shit out with talking, it ended up with a really painful and unnecessary interval of Alanis Morisette-like indie bitter godhood. Remembering this brought him into fire all over again, for which the pervious “thing-affair” talk with Don has already built the stake. So he talks, basing on his own experience: he pukes out the MAD cold war he had with Cas, he goes with the clamps and feathers too, only this time he knows he’s not referring to Cas as Cas, not exactly. Clamps and feathers is back in the motel, doing fuck knows what and, Jesus, maybe he should have taken him with just to keep an eye on him. The thought kept bothering him through the entire damn evening, anyway.  Maybe he’s really knees deep in shit as stupid as the two dumbass witches here. But he doesn’t get to go on and prove that he can relate, because thank fuck Sam smells something’s rotten and cuts in before he says anything even more stupid. He spits something about betrayal once, maybe twice, but Sam does a very good job keeping him quiet, overall. Bad thing is, he’s gotta listen to all of this shit and it makes him think about Cas and him and “back then” all over again.

“You buried your anger and your disappointment till it tore you apart,” he hears Sam say. “All you needed to do was talk.”

And all fucking right, Dean calls it enough. They did talk, he thinks bitterly, and they have only talked themselves further into shit, deeper and deeper until they both fucking died there and then. He remembers that just fine. So yeah, he calls bullshit, and whatever, he’s done with listening to Sam talking about crap he doesn’t know a damn thing about.

“And I would have missed the nuking that my melon just took. Well, who wants that?” he mocks just to shut Sam and everything else the fuck up.

His input is not, of course, greatly appreciated and that’s when the bees happen, which, really is a very ugly move, okay. Exactly why he hates witches.

And then they make up and make out and Dean is forced to watch while still being assaulted by bees. 

“Somebody wants to call these things off? Excuse me?” he tries.

But they seem to be too busy with each other and Sam is still playing the smile and nod survival game.

That’s when he hears rushing footsteps and to his amazement, sees the Leviathan running in from the kitchen compartment.

“I told you to be careful,” he whines as he makes his way towards Dean and Dean instinctively responds with rolling his eyes, but after that confusion settles down on his face because what the actual fuck is this supposed to be.

“I travelled through the pipes, Dean,” the obviously unable to keep his promise chomper explains, noticing Dean’s confusion. “I can eat that, stay still,” he assures and proceeds to devour the fucking bees like they’re candy. “We need to leave this place, now,” he insists.

Dean bursts out through the door, angry and the monster follows.

“What the fuck was that?” he mutters viciously.

“I’ve heard your call,” the chomper replies calmly.

“And I thought I told you to stay the hell out of my way! Did I stutter?”

“Dean, this place is not safe, I had to warn you.”

“Yes,” Dean snarls. “There are witches in pon farr there. Of course it isn’t safe.”

“I don’t mean that.”

“Then what?” Dean sighs.

“I don’t know,” the monster admits. “Something is blocking my senses and won’t let me decipher the threat.”

“Then don’t bother me until you know,” Dean scolds and gets into the car. The Leviathan does the same, sighing and the deeply bothered expression won’t leave his face. A moment later Sam joins them and they finally get back to the motel, where Dean supposes he’s about to have another lovely night with the damn Anne Wilkes of his. Maybe he should have just let the witches take him out. Considering this, he decides to take another swig from his best friend flask when they open the door.

His brother and his chomper share a bitch face and offer it to him.

“Will you stop? This isn’t time for this, Dean. We need to get out,” the monster wails again.

“Oh, give me a break,” Dean decides to say.

“I didn’t say anything,” Sam says.

“It’s been a long day,” Dean explains himself and his verbal slip.

“And it’s not over yet,” he hears a new voice coming and turns around immediately, hearing a thud at the same time.

There’s one ugly-faced dick trying to look scary and the other, Cas-faced dick, trying to get up from the floor, black crap dripping out of his mouth. Dean’s gun instinctively rushes to the new intruder’s chest.

“This explains a lot” he hears the chomper mutter as he wipes off the blood with the back of his hand. “You knew I would be here and you distorted my senses to confuse me.”

The new asshat only seems to snort, lightly nodding and doesn’t even spare the monster a glance. He’s interested only in him and Sam.

“That was rude,” the Leviathan huffs, as offended as if he was actually told something to begin with.

Great, Dean thinks, now it’s monster-radio gossip on top of everything.

“Hi, Sam,” the new one greets. “Hi, Dean,” he adds after a pause.

“Don’t you talk to him! Not at all, not like that!” Cas-faced chomper rages  and lashes out at him again only to be sent into the wall by one smooth, nonchalant tentacle bitch slap. He didn’t lie when he said he’s a weak bitch, Dean sighs. What a good time to be the puny one.

“Do I know you?” Sam asks and Dean thinks he really, really shouldn’t have.

“Well, I definitely know you. You’re the dead guys. Well, you will be in a minute.”

Well, fuck, Dean thinks and shoots the bitch.

“Dean!” the Leviathan frantically cries and gathers himself from the floor and tries to jump his teeth at the currently eye-rolling fuck, but receives a really pissed of blow in the head this time and gets his neck snapped in result.

“Sorry, you’re a bit outmatched,” the monster says and walks towards Dean.

“Fuck,” Dean hears him hiss painfully and he doesn’t know whether he’s more shocked by the sight of such damage done to something that looks like Cas or by the sole fact that he just heard him curse. He doesn’t get to choose, however, because he receives a punch from the creepy guy that sends him far enough, and he’s got to give his monster a point in this one – he hits really hard alright. No wonder he appears to be a pansy in comparison.

But surprisingly, neither of them dies – something sends the asshole down to the ground. Even more surprisingly, it happens to be Don.

When Don leaves a moment later and takes his lovely wife’s hex bags with, Dean finally finds the time to breathe and think about the whole situation. So the sons of bitches did take them as something personal, after all. It’s always about the Winchesters, isn’t it.

“Sammy, prepare the car and let Bobby know what’s up and I’ll tie this mother up, okay?” he asks and sighs heavily.

“Sure,” Sam says and heads to the parking lot.

“What the hell was that?!” Dean groans tiredly when Sam can’t hear him anymore. “Some kind of a family reunion?!”

“Do I look reunited to you?” the Leviathan snarls back, fixing his neck with a disgusting sound.

Dean cracks a short laugh. For once the asshole actually managed to say something moderately funny.

“Eh, we’ll sort this out,” he shrugs and pats the monster’s back carelessly upon standing up. “Come on, help me chain this bitch up. We’re going on a night trip out of town,” he adds and the chomper snorts. “Man, what did he even say that he pissed you off this much, huh?” Dean inquires because, hell, he’s just too damn curious to let it go.

“You want to know what he called you or what he called me?”

“Both. So, what did he call me?”

“A whore,” comes the anew enraged answer. Dean pulls a sturgeon face.

“And what did he call you?”

"A stupid whore.”

This time Dean snorts and the monster looks at him, bewildered.

“Kid knows what’s up,” he sighs in conclusion.

*

“We should hit the road. You ready?” Dean asks Sam as he walks to the driver’s door.

“Hey, were you, um, were you listening to the Starks tonight?” Sam begins instead of getting his ass into the car.

“Uh, a little, when I wasn't getting slammed into a wall or stung by bees,” Dean brushes off.

“You notice how they, uh, you know, how they -- how they opened up, got everything off their chest?” Sam says, really hoping that after today, maybe he’ll get Dean to open up as well. He has to. Before it’s gonna be too late.

“Yeah. Kudos on selling them that crap,” Dean chuckles nervously and he really, really wants to get in.

“It wasn't crap, Dean. It worked,” he hears. So it’s this again.

“Sam, I am so very, very, very, very, very, very tired –“ he groans, annoyed to no end with where this seems to be going. Waste of time, waste of air, waste of intellectual resources altogether. In other words, no, Sammy. This conversation is not going to happen.

“Dean, like it or not, the stuff you don't talk about doesn't just go away,” Sam rants and Dean slowly looks into the Leviathan’s direction. Of course it won’t go away, Sam, he thinks. “It builds up, like whatever's eating at you right now” his brother insists.

“There's always something eating at me. That's who I am. Something happens, I feel responsible, all right? The Lindbergh baby -- that's on me. Unemployment -- my bad,” Dean retorts.

“That's not what I'm talking about,” Sam exhales, exasperated.

“Well, then what the hell are you talking about?” Dean roars in irritation.

“I'm talking about whatever you're not telling me about,” Sam says. Dean remains silent. Whatever he’s not telling Sam about – he’s not telling Sam about. The lovely little nightmare on his left is not something for Sam to know. There’s no point in adding to this shame. “Look, Dean, it's fine” Dean hears and he looks at the tired, Cas-faced Leviathan again. Is it fine, Sam?, he mocks in his mind, really, is it? “You can unload,” Sam goes on. “That's kind of what I'm here for!” he ends, earnestness  and desperation mixing in his voice.

But out of all the things Sam can be here for, this is not one of them. So Dean just swallows and maintains his policy of painful silence. Sam looks too hurt to look at him, but Dean’s got no other choice. It’s got to stay this way.

“I mean... we're good, right?” Sammy tries.

“We're good,” Dean replies because this at least is the one damn thing he can let the kid know.

But he immediately opens Baby’s door either way and quickly lets the Leviathan in before sitting down himself, because he’s really done with this conversation. He’s really done with being healed either by the blind in the front seat or the wicked from the back seat.

*

It’s true, Dean does take the new level of Leviathan war as a personal as well ever since they dared to literally go under his skin – and for crying out loud – they don’t even know how to fucking wink right, those assholes. He takes it as personal since he knows from his own toothy-face messenger that they’re being called the worst names on a daily basis – turns out that in the chomper world they’re quite the opposite of being brangelina. But hey, those are small things he can and will get over with, but this? This officially is too far if he is forced to ditch his Baby. For a shit-colored Acadian. It’s an offense in itself to have to drive something this fucking Canadian.

Of course, in the very first moment the Leviathan is more than happy about it. He thinks Dean is going to drop the coat alongside with his Impala, doesn’t he. As if. Dean even lets his old cassettes wait for better times. But the coat goes everywhere Dean goes. It’s a rule.  Well, Dean thought it was a rule, back in the days when there was more than just the coat. Hell, no, he’s not going there again. Oh, and if it wasn’t shitty enough already, the monster asshole keeps whining from the backseat, which pretty much officially became the bitchseat at this point, ever since he learned that no, Dean did not, in fact, let the trench coat stay anywhere near Deveraux’s hands. He goes on like a broken record about Dean having to, in this particular order: let go, move on, accept the next best thing, the god-fucking-sent next best thing, live again, love again, submit unto his care and soothing touch and get rid out of the stupid, stupid, hurtful coat before it gets them both killed. And Dean really wants to respond to this utter bullshit with any form of actual violence, but the facts are that Sam is riding the shotgun at this very moment and he probably will be doing so for quite a while since they don’t even really know where they’re heading right now. So in conclusion, Dean sends the only non-verbal signal he can give: he cuts off the dangling winged pony and throws it at the bitchseat bitch, hoping to get him in the face. For a moment he wonders if he earned himself another bones – to a wall tête à tête, but at this point he doesn’t care, he just wants the asshole to know it’s about time to shut the fuck up. Surprisingly enough, the only thing the monster has to say to that is to raise his eyebrows judgingly. What a douche.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“You know, it's bad enough that they're ganking people, wearing our mugs, but now this? Have us driving around in this... this caboodle while Baby's on lockdown,” Dean rants.

“It's temporary, Dean.”

“Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” Dean huffs.

“Y-you know that's a line from –”

“Swayze movie,” Dean cuts in, defensively.  “Swayze always gets a pass!” he insists.

“What’s a Swayze?” He hears the son of a bitch’s curious amusement. Dean continues to ignore him.

“Right. Uh, well, you want some tunes or something?” Sam offers and Dean looks at him, startled, but agrees.  “Here,” Sam says and turns the radio on.

And he regrets that decision immediately, because he clearly sees Dean’s expression falling apart as the Air Supply song gets dangerously too deep into him with the lyrics and to make Dean’s situation worse, Sam seems to know what’s cooking, cause he too, freezes in panic upon hearing the song’s stinging words.

“Sorry, man, I-I...” he tries to apologize.

“Just leave it,” Dean cuts him off in a warning. “Probably gonna be the only thing on,” he adds, so he wouldn’t sound as if he cared or anything.

 The lyrics continue to torment Dean, but, God, this isn’t the only thing going on, is it, he thinks as he sees in the mirror that the Leviathan is rising from his seat enough to lean into his air from behind and he begins to work his smooth fingers all over Dean’s neck and throat, drawing lines, making circles, awakening sparks of filthy, uncalled for, strictly biological shivers. And Dean has to take it because  Sam is there. So he tries to disconnect from the problem by trying to lip-sync to the song, but soon enough he catches himself instinctively leaning his head and neck in to let those warm hands touch it better.

But then he notices Sam is looking at him in a mixture of terror and worry. Dean stops. The hands and their owner, however, still linger. Dean looks behind, suddenly overwhelmed by embarrassment and mouths a voiceless “enough”.

“When I say so, Dean,” the Leviathan replies and steals a small kiss from Dean’s cheek. His face reacts with a broken, even further ashamed tiny smile as he turns around again. The Leviathan’s thumb is petting the line of his arterial affectionately. “Come on, Dean,” he encourages. Having zero other options, Dean attempts to get back to the lip-sync business and even tries to put some heart into it. Better some heart into this rather than into his dick, and fuck, the blood is already going there, isn’t it.

And that’s when Sam decides this is too scary to be allowed to continue so he turns the music off with a solemn face.

“Here,” he points at the map after a moment. “Dean.”

“What,” Dean groans hoarsely, an irritated frown painted on his face because he’s got no idea what to do neither with those hands on his skin, nor with his slightly startled dick and he’s not sure if he’s got any room left for Sammy’s epiphanies right now.

*

 

Turns out Sam had yet another important epiphany not long after the pattern one. What Dean never spit, what his Cas-head fuckball nor Osiris never said – the bitch wearing his own skin revealed, after all. Sam got pissed, real pissed and okay, Dean gets it, so he let him go, hoping he’ll understand him at some point. But he was damn hurt, he’s got to admit to himself. He even let the chomper ride the shotgun so the emptiness of the seat wouldn’t sting him as much in the eye. And by letting him, Dean means his own mouth betraying his better judgment and making him say “Come here” and pointing at the spot next to him. He didn’t have to say it twice. He doesn’t have to say anything twice.

When they check into a really small and shitty motel somewhere in the farthest outskirts of Ralegh, Dean earns a creeped out glare from the keeper for insisting on giving him a room with two beds. Dean’s not surprised, since, well, due to the asshole’s determination to remain visible to his eyes only, he’s apparently solo, but he doesn’t have the time nor the internal resources to feel bothered enough to care that he’s got to look like he’s “Fight Club” crazy.  To hell with that, he can even tell the poor sap that if he really wants to know why it is so important to receive two beds and not one very big one nor one regular, he’s got a Tyler Durden sticking into his sorry ass. What’s the difference if he says it or he doesn’t. He can do whatever the fuck he wants now that Sam is not here, only it’s not at all liberating. Because Sam’s not here.

It’s been nine nights since. The Leviathan seems to respect his pain to some extent. He doesn’t take any liberties to touch him, he doesn’t nag, either. But instead of taking the so long bitched for spare bed, he still takes Dean’s. Dean doesn’t say anything, not once. In the weak lights of the street-lantern, lying next to him, wrinkles on his concerned, constantly tired face lit by the distant glow, he looks like he’s Cas. And he looks like he’s got a halo right behind his head. Sometimes, he even draws that mysterious little smile out of nowhere and Dean’s got no idea what makes him do it just now, until he becomes aware that while he’s thinking about Cas, his lips fail him and he smiles. And damn, he does think of Cas on nights like those when surrounded by nothing but silence and unruffled sheets, the monstrosity of his companion blooms into kindness so authentic and painfully remembered, that for a moment, Dean can’t help but let his mind become fooled, clouded by the flood of his memories. But Cas, his Cas, would never lie with him like that, wouldn’t he.

For a moment when his mind plays pretend, he tenses whole and the bed becomes too conjugal for his liking, this silent space seems too intimate. Because if that were Cas, what would he say to him? Why would he be in this bed with Cas? Would he have the right to ask for something this unheard of? Dean doesn’t know what would he do if he said yes. Dean doesn’t know what would he do if he said no. The proximity of their bodies becomes something he’s aware of. The little distance is something burning and palpable. So is the air that they share, confined within the limits of the small bed. What could it be like if, instead of him, the alluring lie, there was Cas to almost hold? What if he kissed him just for the sake of trying and what if Cas kissed him back? What if those hands were the real ones, not those haunted, would he gather the courage to find out whether they’re warm or they’re cold? Would he seek beneath those arms for some battle scars older than this world, would he let himself drift on Cas’s skin and, would he let himself drown if Cas had wished to become a flood and fill him with his scent, his mouth, his body until there’s nothing left? Not a stone left on another?

Dean keeps thinking why does it suddenly matter and why is it even floating around in the first place. Something in his bones tells him that he already knows the words and the answers, but he just doesn’t have a point in letting those syllables out. The recipient is dead and gone. So the message drowns and lingers, unsaid.

“He loved you,” Dean hears the echo of his own, hidden words and forces his mind to retreat from that sleepy world of what ifs. “He loved all of these pesky things, yes,” the chomper with a fake halo ponders in a whisper, “but he loved you,” and he pauses before gathering the thoughts he wants to convey. It’s the ninth night, Dean counts. Maybe this time he will finally learn where the story goes after “he loved you”. So far, he didn’t. So far it always ended there, a thought abruptly either torn or stopped. 

“He had this knowledge, you know, Dean,” comes a weary, sleepy sigh, “how long are your fingers, what is the skin below your knees like, what do you eat, why do you eat, why did you cry on a certain night and why you didn’t on the other, how does a knife feel to your hand and how your brother’s hair felt like beneath your caring touch when you were children. Everything, Dean,” the Leviathan says and Dean feels the weight of those words falling heavy onto his chest, stealing his breath away. The monster too, needs to inhale forcefully before going on. “Every single word you ever said to him and every frown you made at him. Every single smile different, separate, every glance you either blessed or cursed him with, it was new. Everything neatly put behind a tab of its own. You alone were a sanctuary. You were to hide in for peace and to die in as within a tempest. You, Dean, were both air and the lack of it.”

“Why are you telling me this,” Dean says, a painful lump stuck in his throat.

“Because with all of this, Dean, I am burdened. All of this, you can have.”

“Except that this isn’t real.”

“Define – real.”

“Not you.”

“Dean, I can free you of your own cross. I can feed you in ways you are starving. You’re craving for contact, for touch and your body cries when you torment it with silence,” he tries, unaffected, finding the courage to slide his palm soothingly down Dean’s arm. Dean doesn’t relax but doesn’t move away. “I’m not asking you for emotions. I’m offering you a solution. I’m offering rest,” he tries to convince and Dean almost begins to consider this, almost leans into the innocent touch. “You have to let it g –”

“No,” Dean jerks away abruptly.

“I don’t want you to collapse,” the Leviathan whispers.

“And I don’t want you to anything,” Dean retorts harshly and turns away.

It’s the ninth night. The warm palm falls on Dean’s stomach again, nothing more but a thin layer of cotton separating his skin from the serpent.

*

Dean decides he needs an occupation because his mind and flesh get tempted from time to time, ever since he let those fake fingers soothe his poor neck on that stupid car-swap night. He finds a job by accident in Lily Dale, hoping there’s going to be plenty of time to kill. By even bigger accident, he finds Sam as well. Out of all the possible cases in the US, they chose this one. They’re brothers, alright. Sam doesn’t seem all that happy with the coincident. But Dean is content just by seeing him. Alive, breathing, bitching out a word or two, stuff like that. That’s something. That’s good. When they reach a minimal consensus, they get stormed by a creepy chick and an even creepier dude. Dean pays zero attention to their yapping, Sam probably doesn’t give half a crippled fuck either, but the Leviathan seems to be fucking enthralled. Well, good for him. At least he’s not being a bother.  Sammy and he discuss the case later on and Dean almost forgets the chomper’s even there. Almost.

“He broke my spoon,” Sam says after unsuccessfully trying to stir his coffee with a now completely bent spoon.

Dean frowns and rolls his eyes, disapprovingly. Really?

“I just wanted to try it myself,” the chomper whines like a grounded ten year old, stepping away from Sam’s fucking spoon. He fails to keep in a snort in the end, whatever. Sam’s face was worth it. It’s even better cause he had to use his hand to bend it and  if it isn’t the most pathetic, yet adorable shitty attempt at anything ever, then Dean doesn’t know what is.

“Hey, Neo,” Dean snorts shortly afterwards when still – pissed – Sam leaves for the bathroom, “lemme give you an advice on your little thing,” he goes and the Leviathan raises an eyebrow.

“Which is?”

“There is no spoon,” Dean winks.

For that, Dean gets a pro level bitch face, almost as good as Sam’s. Well, at least in one thing the poor copycat asshole’s got some skills.

Damn, this is going to be a funny case.

*

This isn’t a funny case, Dean decides. Sam is still pissed, the Leviathan is, well, the Leviathan, and people die like it’s trendy or something. Somehow, none of this alone is enough to make it the final straw. He’d never thought he’d say it, but it’s Ellen.

She’ll kick his ass from above if he won’t tell how bad it really is? He’s as damn fine as a human can only be in these circumstances, thanks very much. But the line of “having to trust someone again, eventually”? Oh, no, Ellen. You’re wrong. What does she mean by someone again, huh? She wants to see him doing what, exactly: letting go? Carrying on? Is that what it is? Really? If she’s that well informed she should know that it’s not going to happen. No trusting people after Cas. No people after Cas. No after Cas at all. Damn, he’s pissed.

“That Eleanor person,” the Leviathan starts, rudely ripping him out of his irritation in a very wrong moment when they walk out of the museum of crazy.

“Ellen,” Dean snaps.

“Yes, Ellen,” the chomper corrects himself. “She is right, Dean.”

Alright, that’s enough. Dean is quiet. He’s so pissed he’s seeing red. He’s one of those guys who dig breaking shit, too. He’s going to break shit right now.

“You know what?” he casually starts. “I’ve thought about what you said, back then. I need to get things out of my system, biblically,” he pauses and waits to get a proper reaction of hope and interest. “And I will. Just not with you. Can’t do, won’t do,” he says with cold nonchalance. “Once this case is done, Sam and I are heading to Vegas and I’m banging bitches until I’m clean. What do you think?” he tries innocently and of course he sees the broken, pained expression. He aimed for that, didn’t he?

“Whatever you think you need, Dean,” the monster sighs in reply, already walking towards the car.

And it’s strange. Dean expected it to be relieving. Or funny. But he just feels like he’s the pathetic loser trying to manually bend a god damn spoon. He’s not going to apologize, though. He shouldn’t have messed with that subject one time too many. He’s going to Vegas either way – about one thing the Leviathan was apparently right. Dean would use some good fucking just to clear his mind. Thing is, he doesn’t want it to be personal. And whatever is wearing Cas’s face is too damn personal and overall is a very bad idea to get laid with.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from:  
> Falco - Jeanny
> 
> also mentioned:  
> Grace Jones - Libertango


	10. X.

**X**

**“I break my car into the bridge”**

Constant changing locations  from one abandoned ruin to another takes its toll on Dean. It’s not like being on the move or even on the run is a problem – of course it’s not. He’s disturbingly too used to that already. It’s just that jeez, these freakin holes are just a whole new level of unsanitary and unsanitary isn’t something that Dean would ever consider his friend. But this, as always, is just the top of Dean’s iceberg because it gets worse on the subject of accommodating. Not only his Baby is still on lock down, but they keep changing from one shitty car to even a more shitty car. The blue, shamefully neglected Challenger was a doable temp, Dean admits, but now, they’re back on the unscheduled schedule crap and this time – Bobby is in charge of providing means of transport. Each time they swap, of course, it gets more difficult to get into the trunk with Cas’s coat unnoticed and obviously the Leviathan keeps advising then bitching and then advising again to get of rid of it, but no, the fucker is not going to get it.

Speaking of which, here’s the worst thing on Dean’s list: he’s gotten himself used to the guy. It’s not like they’re besties or anything, oh hell no. It’s just that after all this time, Dean stopped giving a fuck about getting pissed on the subject. He’s there – that little clingy bitch, and that’s it. And he’s going to keep trying to do his daily and nightly ‘hey let’s make Dean uncomfortable’ thing. But for quite a while now, Dean notices, it isn’t not working because he’s that strong and all that jazz. It’s not working because it’s not making him uncomfortable anymore. He doesn’t play along, but he doesn’t care. And this awareness is probably the last thing on Earth that still makes him tick because, for the fucking love of everything, he knows he should care. He just can’t force himself to do that any longer. It won’t change anything, won’t undo the past, won’t bring the real deal back. This way it’s just easier. Easier to focus on the job, on Sam, on the other angry mothers who, thank God, don’t want to be their nagging fuck-friends.

So when the little scum wants to put him off his game again by petting his neck and trying to sing along with the really, really shitty radio station while Dean drives, the only thing that’s getting him honestly pissed is actually the totally uncalled for Steve Miller Band in his ears right now. And if Dean’s going to hear “I wanna reach out and grab ya” almost whispered in a sheer profanation of Cas’s low voice one more time, he swears to fuck, he’s gonna slam this piece of rust into a tree for the sole reason of it being that particular line. He’s not even sure if he hates the song alone or does it simply get ugly like that when a stupid cunt keeps teasing him as a revenge for however unsuccessful Vegas or having to stay in the backseat. Because it’s always about the trunk and the backseat these days, isn’t it. Dean lets out a heavy breath, but he becomes aware of having that done only because he gets it deliberately pointed out with a murmured quotation.

“I hear the magic in your sighs,” he coos, laughing bitterly. “Just when I think I’m gonna get away, I hear the words that you always say –”

“Fuck you,” looking at the radio panel and pretending that it’s supposed to be the recipient of his sudden snapping, Dean finally cuts it in resignation, but doesn’t put enough effort and malevolence into it to mean it.

“Oh, those I hear too,” the chomper muses. “Always empty promises, Dean,” he sighs.

Dean ignores it and proceeds to change the radio channels until he finds something that has zero chance of pissing him off. Sam stares at him concerned from the shotgun, but he doesn’t say a thing about it. He’s probably already used to him insulting any kind of music that doesn’t come straight out of his Baby. Good. Or maybe he’s just still too confused to react after the grand Air Supply mishap, which is not that good, but what can he do? That’s right: squat.

So he does nothing aside of feeling angry about the fact that all of his cassettes are left in his Impala and angry about his life in general. Last thing he finds playing is Stones’ “Satisfaction” and that’s when he just shakes his head in defeat, turns the whole radio off with a locked jaw and speeds up, focusing his eyes on the darkness of the road before him, earning dumbfounded glares from both Sam and the Leviathan, but he doesn’t feel like responding to any of them. He doesn’t feel like anything at all.

*

Hammonton, New Jersey is probably the most sucking squatting place they’ve been to so far and Dean can’t help but bitch at it fervently. He feels like a Woodstock dirt hippie, which maybe, just maybe, would have made him happier fifteen years ago in a different life. But he’s got his own and he’s far too old and too sober to think about the perks of living in an architectonical embodiment of a puddle of mud. So even though he fixes the electricity and reluctantly agrees to stay, he won’t drop the subject.

“Weeks, guys. Weeks. We've been living with cold showers, cold Hot Pockets, cold freaking everything,” he counts.

“I offered to warm you up, Dean, hadn’t I?” the chomper interjects, rolling his eyes, but Dean elects to ignore that input entirely.

“I mean, this is the bottom that we're living in,” he rants on. “You guys get that, right?”

“It’s not that horrible. It’s got this nice, watery and musky smell. We could just nest here, Dean,” the Leviathan tries, but Dean dismisses the suggestion wordlessly.  That’s exactly why he hates this particular place. He’s already got enough of musty water drilled into his memory to fill a fucking lifetime.

“How many bigmouths are out there, running card traces, like Chet, or hunting us down God knows what ways?” Bobby starts, but Dean never really gets to listen to the rest of it because off all things, a figure of speech just had to get the monster’s attention.

“Bigmouths?” he ponders and Dean can already hear the amusement creeping into his voice which tells him even from here that whatever the word of wisdom is going to be – it’ll be bad. “I like this one. Do you think I have a big mouth, Dean?” he asks, pointing at what was originally Cas’s lips while locating himself so close in Dean’s space that it becomes one hell of a struggle to pretend he’s not there and not punch him in the face to stop him from going. And boy, does he go, Dean sighs in his thoughts as he tries to remain unaffected by the tirade for as long as possible. “This one is very capable, too. The things it did to you, Dean. I only wish you remembered how much a mouth like mine can endure and give.” At this point Dean sends out the head-shake universal signal for “don’t” but of course it remains unnoticed because the Leviathan has already gotten himself genuinely far too deep into praising his cock-sucking skills to be able to listen. “I improved it in ways nothing, not even an Angel, can make a vessel work. At least the difference is something you’re partially aware of,” he smiles, nudging Dean subtly with his elbow.

Dean stands there with perhaps the most done with everything expression that has ever found a reason to land on his face and he tries all he can to get the general idea of what he’s being told out of his fucking head because of course, his imagination always has to be this damn respondent.

And then the light goes out, which is good because it’s a distraction enough to get that sights and thoughts out of his heavy, tired head, too. But the darkness is immediately followed by the unmistakable flick of a forked tongue right on the fucking spot marking the border of his ear, jaw and neck, which is something completely different than good. It’s infuriating and dizzying, fueling this fucking pon farr shit he’s got going ever since that yellow can of worms incident. And now that he’s got no idea how to react to that at all, not to mention in public, he just gives up and pukes out all of his entire general-themed frustration onto unsuspecting poor Bobby and just as unlucky Sam, swinging all of into a nice, neat bus metaphor, because yeah – if he had a fucking bus, throwing himself off a cliff in it would be the best thing to do right now.

“Stop trying to wrestle with the big picture, son. You're gonna hurt your head,” Bobby sharply huffs at what Dean knows was a bitch-fit.  Not getting a nick of compassion on his fuck this life problem, he just gives up, opens up a beer and lays down on the sofa that he suspects is filthier than the nethers of a ninety year old economy class whore.  The lying part isn’t easy, though because the Leviathan saw a chance and took it, nesting himself comfortably in Dean’s legs, mounted on both sides of them.  Dean is grateful for once that he’s being completely ignored  by his brother and Bobby who quite reasonably chose discussing a potential case over his hurt, existential feelings because while he’s not exactly sure what, he sure as fuck knows something’s about to happen on this stupid couch and due to his current situation, he’s gonna end up filthier than the damn furniture.

Asswipe in the stolen body and suit doesn’t waste much time. He leans into Dean’s space, whispers something about cheering him up directly into his ear then retreats with a chuckle on his lips and straddling Dean’s knees, he places a hand on his crotch and begins to slowly rub him through his jeans. Now Dean is not exactly thrilled that the whole event takes place at all, but it would be pointless to pretend that physically it is just as annoying – it does feel good.  Doesn’t technically feel right, but just good on the most basic biological level. Emotionally though, it hurts so much already that it dulled him. So if there are any perks of feeling dead while you’re not – it’s that: the numbness. So he allows it. He’s in public, kind of. He’s seen, anyway. There’s no point in even having an opinion on what’s happening. It has to go as it goes.

 Smooth, diligent circles made by that palm become an echo in Dean’s blood and gradually, steadily set his muscles and nerves on fire, one careful move after another and if Dean weren’t that tragically skilled in keeping everything inside, he’d soon be in trouble. He places his spare hand on his hip, not yet sure whether he wants to smack the Leviathan’s paw away or if he’s about to make it press him harder, he stops, and since he knows he still can, albeit with already a weak,  misty and distant expression, he makes a comment on the case as an excuse to breathe.

“Of course the sketch looks more like a Chewbacca-head,” he says and the Leviathan shakes his head and fails to hide a tiny smile before the increases the intensity of his touch a little.

“Sounds kind of mixed up,” Bobby admits.

“Yeah, kind of like it should be fighting a Japanese robot,” Dean retorts, mixed up himself, voice hoarser and he takes a sip of his beer, stealing a glance of the chomper while he’s at it. The monster gazes back, purring proud and content with himself, finally makes the decision to stop teasing and get serious with his strength, tempo and slips his hand directly on the flesh after undoing Dean’s fly. Dean masks his reactions with a tired sigh, wipes a hand across his face because he’s not sure if he’s sweating already or only feeling like he is. The next comment, Dean makes with some effort is about a piñata and dizzy-headed enough to see a comparison, he conjures a thought that he feels like one, too and he vaguely begins to wonder if there’s many strokes left for him to take before he shamefully falls into pieces in his own pants. That’s probably gonna happen rather quicker than later, like he’s fourteen again, therefore he decides to call it a day and persuade his unaware family to go to sleep as fast as possible, hopefully before he comes undone here like it’s some national TV or something.

 With a slightly strained voice he prods Sam to present the definition of a glamper because as of now, spitting out two sentences in an inconspicuous way is above his limits. He takes another swig of his beer and exhales gruffly with hidden pleasure under the pretext of enjoying the taste. The Leviathan hums softly and licks his mouth as if that sound alone was a delight in itself, putting even more raw force into giving Dean solid reasons to discontinue breathing. Luckily, a moment after Bobby and Sam agree to drop the case for tonight and they go off to find a manageable place to sleep. Dean exhales with a groan and bites his lip, finally convinced he’s safe now. That’s when the least expected thing happens, which is the chomper stopping everything he’s doing all at once only to get off the bed with that fucking basic instinct’s  Sharon Stone’s sort of cock-aching nonchalance.

“Sleep tight, Dean,” he says warmly and places a soft kiss, brushing Dean’s parted lips with his own.

 And then he just fucking goes, as in: for whatever malevolent reason by design he leaves him hard, confused and confined in his pants then goes to be a dick somewhere else. Sleep tight, he said. For that pun alone, Dean is going to kill that bitch.

*

Needless to say, the next day is rather tense. Of course, it’ s much of a help on Dean’s part – because now not talking to that asshole could go even smoother. But the downside is that he can’t use physical violence now that he really wants to, disregarding the fact that it’s pretty much pointless, objectively speaking. The second downside is that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, stopping  the Leviathan from talking and he’s very happy to make use of his upper hand on this one.

“What’s this? Suddenly unhappy I’m _not_ touching you, are we?” he coos mockingly first thing in the fucking morning after receiving a deadly stare from Dean the very moment he reentered the room. “Having problems making up your mind?”

“Look who’s talking,” Dean hisses almost unnoticeably. “You know damn right I want none of your crap. But what you’ve pulled is just being a dick.”

“Oh, I’m much, much more than just a dick,” the Leviathan cackles sagely.

“Really? Then act like it!” Dean huffs.

“Dean, I just wanted to make you finally understand how you make me feel every single day. Words failed to convey every time I tried to tell you, you still would not listen,” he sighs.

“You think I’m cock-teasing you?!” Dean blinks, offended. “On purpose?!”

“And you’re not?!” the chomper spits angrily in disbelief. “You can lie to yourself all you want, Dean, but I can smell you,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “You reek of neediness when it comes to him, it’s mind-blinding. Maybe you don’t want me for me, but whether you like it or not, I am the main recipient of your suppressed needs and they do affect me. You think it is fun that I’m having? Now you know how much fun it is. So we’re really equal and you can quit being so hurt about it.”

“No, we’re not equal, you jackass,” Dean shakes his head bitterly. “Whatever there is I might be doing, I doesn’t happen cause I want it to.”

He receives a matching head-shake in reply, but if anything, it’s disbelief mostly, as it turns out right away.

“You think I love you because I want to?” the monster snorts, stopping himself abruptly from adding whatever he was meant to continue with in the first place. “You think I’ve had a choice, Dean?” he sighs in defeat after a painfully long moment.

“What the hell did you just say?”

“Just do your usual thing and pretend you didn’t hear me,” he cuts in.

“How the fuck am I supposed to do that, huh?” Dean groans, taken aback by the sudden revelation that might only fit in the “what the fuck” category because, well, what the fuck.

“I don’t know,” the Leviathan shrugs. “Maybe do your other usual thing and forget it” he groans.  Upon having this said, he abandons the room, leaving Dean in confusion and drowning in a river of questions that he doesn’t know how to put into words or what even their fucking point is. He just doesn’t know. One thing he knows though, is how it’s like to spill the most of your guts despite of having shit unrequited. So he decides to try whichever of the above. Might actually be best to all of them.

*

The Leviathan doesn’t reappear until they’re halfway through questioning the funny guy at Biggerson’s. The ranger – or more like – Ranger Rick – isn’t much of a help, but he’s stoned like he’s Mardi Gras on two lean legs on a pretty butt and the things that come out of his kind little mouth are so much bullshit they’re actually adorable and Dean can’t help but await new golden words of wisdom with almost childish excitement. Overall, Ranger Rick despite his age, does have this childlike innocent appeal and Dean for a second there thinks that he could ruffle that dark hair of his upon taking his leave and he would so get away with this. But he doesn’t even try because the thought gets distracted as quickly as it just came – seeing Bobby enter the diner, Dean forgot what he was even thinking about a moment ago. That’s also when he finally notices the chomper leaning against  the front door wall, looking all like he’s got wasps in his panties. Dean regains full control of the track of his thoughts and bids his farewells to Rick, leaving him an FBI card with his number on it, though he really doubts this harmless little stoner might be of use on the case.

The three of them get their orders and an additional set of insults from the inexplicably angry waiter that probably does want to look like a hostess, anyway. His personal equally angry companion doesn’t walk up to their table until that Brandon asshole leaves and Dean  wonders if there might be a common source of the PMS thing that’s apparently going on here. Or maybe the conversation that they technically did not have was the issue, but for crying out loud – Dean didn’t even get to insult him properly this time, so why would he want to behave like a bitch in this particular moment is beyond him.

“Brandon’s got his flare all up in bunch,” Bobby notices.

“Yeah, there goes his 18 percent,” Sam huffs.

“I can eat him if he offended you and your kin too far,” the Leviathan sighs and finally lets words come out of his mouth in some kind of fucked up attempt in offering a reunion.

Normally, Dean would really like to say something witty on the subject of a dumb asshole, but now he thinks it might be best to actually drop it, so his moody personal assassin wouldn’t get any stupid ideas.

“Anyway, chief ranger,” he decides to cut, then. “I don’t think he believes in the Jersey Devil.”

“Yes, Dean. Do tell me more about chief ranger,” the chomper snarls venomously with an even more solemn face. “I’ll eat him instead.”

And Dean really fails to get why something so innocent would cause this much of a bitch-fit. He really hopes to find a minute or two to talk this out in private before Ranger Rick ends up as a pack of m&m’s for the grumpy lady here.

“Oh, and by the way,” Sam asks, “did he seem a little, um, stoned to you?”

“Yes, Dean” the Leviathan hisses mockingly, “did he seem, um, a little too appealing to you?”

,

Now Dean at least knows what’s the fucking problem. He is. Well, his monster should totally high-five Brandon on this one, even though their reasons hopefully differ. Dean chooses to address the issue with biting into his sandwich and whatever Sam says next – he misses because, Jesus, that is an awesome sandwich and this is something he feels the need to share with the rest.  When everyone is busy inquiring and judging Dean’s meal, the Leviathan leans into Dean’s immediate space to smell the unholy diner-creature. His face contorts with disgust.

“This reeks worse than the things you shun me for eating, Dean. And I eat corpses these days.”

Good for you, Ramsay, Dean thinks and digs deeper into his captivating TDK.

*

In fact, Dean’s sandwich keeps him very happy and newly fascinated with the joys of the universe for a while. By both of these Dean really means uncaring, but it makes him feel as light at heart that he actually supposes it can pass as happy to some extent. And even it doesn’t – well, he won’t be the one to care.

Right now, he’s with Bobby, Sammy and his invisible asshole in the woods, hunting things. And he’s content. He knows he’s being constantly observed by the chomper, but well, he kinda got used to that already so he doesn’t bother with asking what’s the fucking problem. Oh, right, it’s him, isn’t it. Suddenly Dean thinks he might actually prevent the bitching for once and he gets an idea how to achieve it. They’re slightly behind Bobby and Sam now, but just a little, so Dean remains subtle and quiet. He grabs a thin branch off some bush and punches the Leviathan on the arm to get his attention.

“Have a plant,” he announces quietly but proudly as he smiles and pats the clearly dumbfounded monster on the back and marches forward to catch up with the rest.

Not long after, they find something hanging above their heads and it sure ain’t mistletoe.

“Well, looks like we found Phil,” Dean states.

“Looks like your sandwich,” the monster retorts. Shouldn’t have shown sarcasm to this one, Dean thinks more amused than actually offended.

Maybe an hour later the ranger truck arrives and out of it emerges the frowned upon in some Leviathan societies Ranger Rick, which Dean decides to call Bambi from now on because why the fuck not. Just as predicted, the Leviathan frowns upon the arrival and Dean is trying to figure out how to shush him down without actually having to do so. Maybe another plant. Maybe a blowjob. Never mind that, neither is an option since he’s clearly in public and wait, did he just -

“Special agents,” Rick greets and the chomper begins to hiss. “Listen. I got your call. But I’m not sure I got what you were saying.” Well ain’t that cute, Dean ponders.

“That’s because you are an idiot,” the monster groans.

Dean just points upwards and says nothing.

“Hey, I think we found Phil,” Bambi says.

“That’s what I said,” Dean smiles, proud of himself and happy to have something in common with the guy.

“One more word from either of you and I’m eating that” the Leviathan warns still smiling Dean.

“I should probably call this in,” Rick notices and Dean nods at him, because he’d better do that before Bambi really says a word too much and shit happens. Dean likes Rick. Rick is awkward, maybe, but he saves things and he’s kind. Even his face alone is kind – kind, big eyes, kind smile, and there’s that neat I don’t care hair and a little stubble. It’s a familiar thing. Dean looks back at the Leviathan. Man, if only Dean could have these two in one cool dude, it would be awesome. The monster notices Dean smiling at him and returns the gesture. It’s cool.

A moment later, someone broke the fucking rule and killed Bambi.

“Man, I liked Rick,” Dean whines as an afterthought and earns himself a handful of equally concerned and disturbed glares coming from his brother, Bobby and the Scar equivalent of this Disney story.

“You were alone in this opinion,” the chomper comments because he’s a bitch and because he didn’t get to rule over Pride Rock due to being a bitch.

“Gee, thanks, Spock,” Dean murmurs back the moment Bobby makes enough noise with the shot to muffle his words.

*

Everything’s awesome but kind of boring, too. Bobby and Sam aren’t laughing at his jokes cause all they do is poke at the not fat-fat dead guy and ask him a checkpoint are you okay phrase every now and then. And each time as well Dean has to explain that wow, he’s pretty much never felt better and what not. Still, they won’t listen and honestly, a dude can only go so far with this constant bullshit, so at some point he just kinda shrugs it off and goes to the other temporary bedroom. There, his whiskey and meanie Bambi await his return. First one on a counter and the other, sprawled all over the wretched, dirty mattress with his fine limbs and the somewhat less fine slimy ones, Bambi eyes staring back at him intently  with something that can only be confusion that high it actually becomes a mutated form of awe.

“What – you want me to paint you like one of my French girls?” Dean laughs and instantly really finds himself picturing the chomper Kate Winslet-naked. For whatever reason he decides to hold that amusing thought. Funny cause it’s a fucking royal sea monster queen and that’s a movie about fucktons of water. Yeah, funny that. It’s totally that.

“Dean,” he begins cautiously.

“Fine,” Dean throws his hands in exasperation. “So maybe I can’t draw. Sue me.”

“Dean, will you come over here, please?”

Dean does what he’s told and once he walks towards his companion, he thinks that, if you take additional anime tentacles out, he’s pretty much got the second best thing around. He sits down and nods to himself. He doesn’t need to feel anything. He’s here, he doesn’t feel at all, not even that numbing ache and, well, he’s just here. It’s possible. It’s manageable. It’s doable, he realizes as he nods once more. He’s doable, too.

“You know what?” Dean finally begins with a mischievous smile, but fails to find the strength to continue with his plan. “I’m going to need a drink,” he tells more himself than he actually says it to the monster and he gets up again, takes the bottle and a glass with and leaves for the kitchen to rethink his choice once without risking any distractions. Because on one hand, the fact that he’s just like Cas but not him is an advantage – like, it’s a crash test ride with no need of commitment, so maybe, just maybe, he should try the damn thing out before he gives it a name. But yeah, on the other side – Dean counts on his fingers – after all this time, he just fucking knows what’s up, doesn’t he. Every time he looks at that copy and every time he opens his fucking trunk – he reassures himself with the painful truth. He loves the dumb, dead son of a bitch, maybe he didn’t always do, but now he certainly does and sleeping around with a lookalike carrying his ashes like glitter won’t bring him back. Well, but frustration and chastity won’t do that, either. See, and that’s why he should have gotten laid in Vegas: a one night stand with something that does not look or sound like someone he just lost can make things easier. And this? This can’t do rat’s ass. This can do his ass and that’s pretty much all it can, isn’t it. Whiskey betrays him and doesn’t give him neither courage nor answers. Maybe he should get another sandwich. At least that made him happy.

“Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

But everyone’s treating him like he’s air. Or stupid. Or like he’s stupid air.

“Okay, guys. Seriously? Time for dinner.”

He gets two disappointed frowns but he’s quite sure dinner goes in pair with that. So he goes to the room once more and whispers to the monster, winking at him while he’s at it.

“We’re gonna have a sandwich, so get into the car.”

Dinner it is.

*

Dinner it so isn’t. They stole his sandwich, forced him back to the dirty ruin and took the turducken as some kind of swan-wrapped hostage. And this is stupid because making that much of a fuss over two slices of bread and cheap poultry is not worth the effort. As for the sandwich itself, well, at least it made him feel better and braver to not care – which is something that they kept saying they wanted him to be and now, they took it away and proceed to insult both him and his meal. What’s even the point, Dean muses.

“This is stupid,” he slurs as he leans impatiently against the counter, more in fact to the Leviathan  than to his family, since they’re not listening to his explanations, anyway. “My sandwich didn’t do anything. I don’t know what you think you’re gonna find,” he turns to face them again because the monster didn’t say anything at all, busy staring at the damn aluminum wrapping. No support on this one, then. Always chatty in the wrong moments and quiet in the right ones, isn’t he.

“There’s something wrong with you, Dean,” Bobby explains.

And, Jesus, Dean is so fed up with this already. No, there isn’t. For fucking once it actually isn’t and yet, it seems that all everybody wants to do is to swing a post-mortem on his golden ticket. Thanks a lot, guys.

“Are you kidding?” the absurdity of his situation almost makes him stutter. “I’m fine!” he snorts and sits down on the counter. “I, I actually feel great!” Dean adds as he adjusts his position to let the copy-Cas slide himself in between his now open legs. “The best I’ve felt in a couple of months,” he admits while staring enthralled at the black-suited waiting, far too palpable, silhouette which is already eyeing him whole and threatening with a luscious smile, but still remains strained from making a move. Well, maybe he needs some form of extra incentive, so Dean goes on, swinging his legs just as excitedly as carelessly. “Cas? Black goo? I don’t even care anymore,” he says cause at the moment it’s fucking true. Here he’s got both in this filthy, messed up masquerade configuration, but for now, for as long as the turducken keeps working its charm, it’s still better to at least have a good lie than  suffer with  idiotic intervals of jumping from inexplicable physical frustration into voids and their nothings and God, as those words finally fell, they dropped on the ground heavy. Dean feels like’s had a ball and a chain and suddenly he’s floating. Either this or the Leviathan is now pulling him towards himself by the belt loops strong enough it’s gonna lift his restless ass. “And you know what’s even better? I don’t care that I don’t care. I just want my damn slammer back.”

And he wants to go, now, cause the adrenaline is making his blood boil wild. Then Sam makes a stupid, Bambi-related comment and it makes the chomper’s black ooze hot, too. He roars into Dean’s face with unhidden jealousy and grabs him possessively by the ass so hard that he’s sure it’s gonna leave a mark. And it’s cool cause Dean doesn’t care. He only cares about what’s hopefully coming next. So after a few boring, worried looks and partially insulting comments, he decides to excuse himself out of the conversation. The sandwich, however, takes offense on those words that slide off Dean just like those calloused, greedy hands now slide all over him, and the sudden eruption of snot distracts him for a moment, enough to actually get off the counter and take a look at it. The Leviathan, unruffled, chooses to focus his palms on Dean’s back for the time being and begins to draw shiver-inducing lines across his spine.

“If I wasn’t so chilled out right now, I would puke,” Dean comments. “So you carry on with your fascinating meat-vestigation, cause for me it’s bedtime,” he adds carelessly.

Bobby and Sam seem to consider it for a moment and they agree, cause – as Bobby puts it – maybe it’s gonna wear off faster if Dean sleeps it through and it’s either way safer cause there’s a smaller risk Bobby’s gonna shoot his idjit face if he actually stops talking. And Sam admits Bobby’s got a point.

“Sammy, you and Bobby can take the mattress and the couch tonight, I’m gonna crash my ass in the van, okay?” he suggests as they have the first issue clear.

“Why?” Sam inquires with knitted brows and a disbelieving face.

“Cause I don’t care,” Dean cuts it merrily, leaves the old house and the Leviathan happily follows.

*

As soon as Dean opens the car, he pulls the Leviathan in by the lapels of his suit and with shaking, adrenaline-driven hands, he attempts to take it off. The monster doesn’t even try to help him out with that little task, passively, with pride shining through his mischievously squinted eyes,  he takes the time to observe the ferocious hunter at work and lets out a low chuckle.

“You suddenly low on libido or do you think you’re gonna get a lap dance if you keep me struggling  like this long enough?” Dean huffs, as he’s sat across the Leviathan’s thighs, fighting off his tie and trying to undo his shirt’s buttons, but the longer and more fervently he tries, the harder Dean’s hands continue to shake and the case of the white collar shirt becomes even more hopeless. The comment doesn’t earn any cooperation – just as Dean secretly hoped it would do. Instead, the monster only leans back on the seat and lets out a very pleased groan.

“None of the above, Dean. I just want to let you unwrap by yourself the prize that you dreamed of for so long,” he purrs. “How long, Dean?”

Dean wants nothing more but his favorite fuck it then drop it sort of lay, not a heavy heart to heart, not now, not with this guy.

“In the kitchen, a moment ago,” he deflects, “how did you know what I was about to do? How’d you know I’d let you in between like I did?” Dean inquires, to some extent actually curious about the answer.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” the Leviathan chants in a gravel, well known note, sending thunders and lightning to Dean’s dick each time it’s being said like this. He chooses to dive into the space of the unveiled skin of Dean’s neck as he murmurs into it, moist of his breath falling heavy on Dean’s senses. “I smelled it all over you,” and the words, as they almost brush against his skin with the mouth that bears them and their ancient, heavy, long syllables sunk in their unforgettable sound of power and promise, make new worlds unravel in Dean’s loins in a whole new and unholy act of creation.

“You smelled it,” Dean begins hoarsely and pauses to find the courage to proceed with a broken voice, “good, cause some of it’s for you,” Dean licks his mouth and swallows, equally sure and unsure of what he’s about to offer. “So come and get it, big boy.”

And as much as the Leviathan probably even intended to keep this whole chivalry baby steps and self discovery promise, those unexpected words just end it. A curtain falls heavy on his mind, cutting away any last threads of self-control like guillotine blade and awakens the old, hungry beast that he is. With a triumphant roar he forcefully pushes Dean down on the back sofa and entangles his lean fingers painfully in Dean’s hair, pulling back, forcing the throat to uncover itself. He digs his mouth into it rampantly and sucks on Dean’s pulse, flooding him with the obliterating wetness of his tongue and lips, marking him with that stubble and Dean moans hopelessly, thoughtlessly into the contact as that mouth continues to cry out incoherent, satisfaction-brimmed whimpers into his thrilled, revealed and desecrated throat. Then the monster decides to respond to Dean’s needy moans with aiming at his waiting, beggarly parted lips and dives into its moist depths like the ageless sea monster that he always was and always shall remain and he conquers it whole as he once conquered the grand ocean. And he loves this even more than he loved that. With the sharp edges of his teeth, he leaves passages of poetry on the pink canvas of Dean’s swollen lips – tales of completion and promises of possession. He groans into Dean’s skin and the echo of his voice makes Dean lose himself and shudder.

“The thoughts he had of you, in that car,” the Leviathan whispers wetly into Dean’s neck, “corrupted and almost as beautiful as we are now,” and Dean trembles in awe at those words. “He dreamed to rip you apart ungodly, he wished to lie as we lie and it haunted him and haunted until he was blind to everything that is not the orchard of your loins,” he says and causes Dean’s breath to stop halfway in. “But here I am, the first among the blossoms,” he triumphs. “The first and the only,” he repeats in a warning and sealing another brain-dimming kiss on Dean’s red, aching neck, he swiftly removes Dean’s pants and Dean bucks his hips welcomingly at the sudden touch while attempting to kick off his boots as well to get those fucking jeans out of his damn way to paradise. His skin is a hot sea and the Leviathan bathes his hands in its warm, open waters, becomes the omnipotent whisperer in control of its impatient, longing tides and he causes Dean to let out pathetic, begging whimpers as he grips him firmly as if his flesh were the scepter of a god-like king and teases him sharply, but unfulfilling in those craving-hardened fortress he so cruelly abandoned on the night before. Dean sinks his nails into the fake leather of the conjugal backseat and with luring thrusts, he tries to beckon the monster to finally lock them both down irreversibly – like a river falling into the sea, like cats conjoined by needs of their nature in the weak spring mornings. The Leviathan’s eyes follow these movements with hungry delight and who is he to dismiss such a praise, such a prayer-like plea?

All at once, he releases dozens of his tentacles and before Dean closes his eyes in weary defeat of the painful wait, he sees the monster and the thin branches of his ancient form spread behind his back proudly like a peacock’s tail, like a crown. Those cold, boneless limbs lift Dean upwards as the Leviathan quickly throws off his suit and unbuttons his sleeve to reveal the brasslike glowing skin of his forearm. Without a word of warning, he forces the soft meat of his hand into Dean’s mouth, and in shock, Dean opens his eyes once more and responds with a confused look.

“Bite,” the monster commands sharply, staring back into Dean’s eyes, tainting his mind beyond recognition with the desire-heavy, wide darkness that takes over their blue, cold surface. And Dean compels, without a second thought he sinks his teeth into the lake-reeking, salty flesh and he presses until he begins to fill thick, bitter liquid filling his mouth. The monster hisses in a mixture of spiritual joy and physical pleasure and it’s so loud it fills Dean’s head like the noise of empty static. The hand is taken away from him and he can see black ooze dripping from his bite-wound. The monster-Cas begins to undo the forever secret and too confining universe of his paints and the noise that unfastening the belt and unzipping make, are a heavenly horn’s roaring in Dean’s ears. It’s the sound of an old prophecy that Dean shall finally get to fulfill. Finally.

But when the obscure nudity of that abdomen and its ripe fruit is revealed for Dean to see, he can’t find the strength in him to look. Rather than that, he focuses his heavy eyes on the Cas-stolen hands. The monster with a content hum proceeds to smear the thick, dark blood all over his palms and all over his fully awaken flesh and Dean swallows his breath somewhere along the way because it becomes clear to him and to his needy hips that tonight, he’s falling apart in black. And he’s falling from the start. Within the first contact that the intrusion provides, his body jolts in waves of painful, breath-taking electricity. He doesn’t get enough time to adjust and reach the level of full comfort, because due to the unfathomable sensation of their bodies meeting one another like this, the monster too, grows impatient and wastes no time to replace his lean fingers with the ripeness of his length the moment he senses Dean’s delightful, trembling body has stopped fighting enough to let it in. And he waited so long for Dean to let him in. He waited from the start. As Dean cries out in pain, he dulls the hoarse wailing with his thunder scream of victory and nearly paralyzing pleasure. When he begins to move, keeping the courtesy of careful, slow motions at first, he forces his mouth down on Dean’s as equally to soothe and distract him as just to shut him down. Dean responds to the kisses, but his mouth’s replies are shaky, weary and weak as he’s fighting with his lungs not knowing whether he should keep the burning air in or would it all hurt less if he let the lingering wave all out and he’s stuck like a rabid animal, all trembling in the firm embrace of those dirty hands and tentacle wreaths.

“Dean,” he hears whispered against his lips among the noises brought by the pain of that slow, but determined coming and going tidal waves of burning flesh in flesh, alien-like collisions. “Let go,” the murmur tells him. But Dean can’t let go. He never will. He breaks himself even more and opens his body wider. Right now, he wants to forget. But he will never let go. So he grits his teeth and grabs the small of the Leviathan’s back and pushes him all, all of the lie in as he forsakes the remains of his clarity with a hoarse, shattered moan.

“Just…” he tries, but he doesn’t even know what he wants to be just done.

So the monster with the perfect-fit mask made of his Cas hushes him down with the one last kiss and does everything to him.   At last, he does everything he desires so he parts and rejoins his hips with the Canaan of Dean’s body in frenetic, thoughtless thrusts time and time and again, getting a variety of moans, groans and pained, heavy sighs as response to the raw song of his intoxicating flesh. And he loses himself in the sweet wilderness that Dean is he forgets about the roses and forgets that he is the one made of thorns. His moves are swift, all-shattering and he writhes inside of him so smoothly and greatly as the hectic, boneless serpent he was made as. He stops his stolen lungs from going only to listen to Dean’s heavy, broken breathing and he feeds on it greedily, but only gets more and more hungry and more he wants to take out of Dean. He bites into his clavicle and draws blood, sucks into the small wound until his mouth goes numb, until Dean’s hoarse groans reward him, but it only makes his thirst grow.

Without even knowing it, he increases his pace and the force of his blissful intrusions and the closer he comes to completion, the less he knows about anything. He becomes his own hunger and the noise of Dean’s blood rushing beneath his hands and on both sides of his hips is the only thing he can hear. He wants to open that body in new places and bathe in the warmth of its insides, so he grips it tighter and pulls in harder, the vessel aiming to rip through this trembling, whimpering human delight without the Leviathan beneath even being aware of that anymore. His teeth are aching to manifest and consume, his eyes are targeting Dean’s fragile chest rising and falling beneath his touch like a cat stalks his prey before killing and the tired moans of the small form swaying and bucking below his weight only keeps beckoning him to cut in and devour. And when in the very end, blinded by a mind-breaking flood of highest pleasure, he goes so far he forgets everything he ever tried to be but wasn’t, he lets his mouth reemerge from the depths of his façade, but when he’s midway diving into the sea of Dean’s arterial, he catches a glimpse of Dean’s eyes. And he stops.

 

Because Dean, exhausted, dizzy, pain, pleasure and adrenaline mad, seeing that monstrous mouth opening up on him with hundreds of teeth, lets out a soft, broken sigh with which he is relieved to welcome his death and knowing that he’s just about to die becomes the catalyst of his release.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters almost soundlessly into the suddenly sunken, terrified face of what once was Cas, but because of him – became this.

Dean isn’t the only one who is sorry. The Leviathan removes himself carefully and caresses Dean’s temple softly as he pulls his wet hair away. He just stares into Dean’s tired, lightless eyes and shakes his head breathlessly with a shattered and pained expression already swollen on his once more humanlike face. He says nothing. He lifts Dean’s exhausted, boneless body again and proceeds to put his pants back on. He says nothing. Slowly, he spreads him on the backseat. He retrieves a blanket from above the seat and covers Dean with it. He doesn’t say a word. Dean slowly drifts away when his breath finally steadies. He doesn’t say a thing. He fixes his clothes and leaves.

Yeah, Dean thinks before the rest of his consciousness wears off, Cas used to break him then leave him, too.

Everything gets darker.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from:  
> Icona Pop - I don't care


	11. XI.

**XI**

**“And the vision that was planted in my brain  
still remains within the sound of silence”**

When Bobby and Sam finish their research maybe an hour later, they find Dean snoring loudly in the back of the car. Bobby even thinks it’s good, actually. For a moment there, he was afraid Dean intended to do something really stupid and self-destructive while on his trip, but seeing him asleep just like he promised he would be, calms Bobby down a little. Sam is staring at his brother with a mother-hen concern and he doesn’t seem to be that fine with what he sees. Those words he heard in the kitchen actually terrified him just as much as he was afraid of Satan not that long ago. Because if Dean doesn’t care about Cas – then how far is he from the edge of his cliff? What is left of his brother if there is no caring in his heart anymore? He just knew there was more to Dean’s behavior than what he told him. It wasn’t about lying to him – it’s not what made Dean lose it, as he put it. That doesn’t explain yesterday’s suicide bus ride for starters. Doesn’t explain the pony or the radio. And finally, it does not explain the dirty bolt of cloth that magically finds its way to every single trunk. Since July. It’s January.

“How's he doing?” Sam asks, when they’re back at the turducken crime scene, hoping that maybe Bobby knows something he doesn’t.

“He's sleeping it off,” Bobby says. “Tryptophan coma,” he decides. Sam snorts at that bitterly. He knows damn well this isn’t overeating. In fact, the real problem has nothing to do with the mutated chicken. And Bobby has to know that, too.

“So, you think he's okay?”

“Yeah, he's all right.”

“Good. So you don't worry about him?” Sam inquires.

“What do you mean? Before the Turducken?” Bobby tries to make sure.

“Yeah,” Sam begins anxiously. “Yeah, I kind of mean more like, uh... more like ever since my head broke... and we lost Cas,” he points out. “I mean, you ever feel like he's… he's going through the same motions but he's not the same Dean, you know?” Sam notices with sadness as he thinks about his brother spiraling down into nothing in a way he’s never seen him falling before. And it’s a fall that is already lasting six months as a result of the former painful Cas-related impact with reality. Sam feels really sorry, he remembers that sort of falling years ago, after Jess. But even then, he had Dean to lean on and he had a goal to pursue. And Dean? Dean’s got nothing, Sam is not much of a help, and if anything, he feels more like a burden, which makes him feel like crap and even more sorry for Dean’s situation. Because Dean is so much without a cause he doesn’t even rebel anymore.

“How could he be?” Bobby asks rhetorically and with a painful sting he recalls their ride back to Sioux Falls on that day when the bigmouths ditched Cas’s suit into the reservoir. When Dean, feverish, kept shaking and wailing that feathered bastard’s name over and over again through choked breaths, gritted teeth, clenching fists and burning tears before passing out of exhaustion. He’s been there and done that. He knows it ain’t that easy just get up and brush off your dirt, especially if there’s all other sort of crap that keep falling on your head all the time. Except, it doesn’t mean there are any other options but to keep going.

“Right, yeah, but what if –” Sam tries, but Bobby cuts him of before he gets to mention any hypothetic resolution, open counseling Dean’s grief being first option that comes to his mind.

“What if what, Sam?” Bobby sighs. “You know, you worry about him. All he does is worry about you. Who's left to live their own life here?” Sam swallows hard upon those words. He and Bobby is one thing, but Dean – he never even got to know what a “your own life” is. There was always someone else to come first, either him, or Cas. But Bobby proceeds and doesn’t let him dwell on it. “The two of you – aren't you full up just playing Snuffleupagus with the Devil all the live long?” Bobby knows what Sam’s up to and he already knows it’s hopeless. He tried that with Dean and it didn’t work. Guess he’ll have to try something else, then before the kid officially announces he’s going Michael Dorris.

“I don't know, Bobby. Seeing Lucifer's fine with me,” Sam admits.

“Come again?”

“Look, I'm not saying it's fun. I mean, to be honest with you, I-I kind of see it as the best-case scenario,” he says while holding to the scar on his palm just to remind himself that he’s right. “I mean... at least all my crazy's under one umbrella, you know? I kind of know what I'm dealing with. A lot of people got it worse,” he says without looking at Bobby. And by lot of people, Sam means Dean. Dean doesn’t even seem like he really knows what kind of a windmill he’s fighting. Which probably, Sam thinks, is the biggest damn problem. Dean is always the last to know the most crucial truths, isn’t he.

“You always were one deep little son of a bitch,” Bobby sighs in conclusion.

Sam half snorts and half huffs because in the end, he’s not sure if it makes it more funny or more pathetic. Being deep didn’t take him anywhere, so far.

*

The next day does not wake Dean up with a welcoming warmth of sunshine. It wakes him up with the silence of drowning. The next day Dean not only understands what he had done. The next day, Dean cares. And it suffocates him. In his lungs, instead of air, there is guilt. In his veins, instead of blood, there’s saliva, ooze and cum. Best part is, he did it – not the chicken, not the turkey, not the duck. The sandwich didn’t tell him to boldly go forth and swallow that cock with his ass. Didn’t tell him to arrange the family-free me time so he could frolic in that car with the sea monster of his choice. And certainly, the sandwich alone, did not even suggest to walk up to that stupid room, take a look at the guy and think: hey, this jerk looks like my friend. I should so fuck it. And then to go and fuck it so, so much, he fucking stabbed himself with that dick cause he was literally that eager to take it he just had to push it in, Jesus. He needs another gulp of bitter coffee just to process that.

Whose idea was it? His. Entirely, completely and to a great extent – soberly his. That little cunt didn’t even have to do anything, no striptease, no persuasion, no nothing. He started it all by himself. Cas is rolling somewhere in that shallow water grave. If he knew, he’d spit on him. And he would be right.

His fuck-buddy is nowhere to be found ever since. And maybe that’s good, Dean decides, because he wouldn’t know what to say to him, anyway. What can you say to someone who tells you that he loves you and then prepares five thousand fucking sets of teeth to eat you? Dean doesn’t even know what’s worse anymore: the fact that he was about to eat him – which is bad because Dean doesn’t take Cas-faced betrayals very well or the fact that he didn’t do it in the end – which is bad because it makes him still technically alive. Dean takes a sip of his coffee and decides it’s the latter. If he were eaten, he would be, well, dead to start with, and that would have been a good timing because there’s literally no better way to go than right after getting some. And last, if he were eaten, he wouldn’t have to worry about feeling like a slut. And for the record, he does. Which is odd because he never felt like one after a one night stand, and it’s not that much about the fact that he just let himself get boned by a dude – then he’d feel like a cockslut. And those are two completely different sorts of guilt. There’s no space left in his head to even try to worry about the second problem, too.

It may be because of the fact that he spread his legs like the whimpering, dick-greedy bitch he was while having Cas’s coat right behind the thin barrier of the back seat. Because if he chose to be fucking honest with himself, Dean ponders bitterly, he’d lie down with the dirty coat instead. But he didn’t. That’s worse than taking cake over pie. It’s like consciously picking Biebs when you’re too lazy to wait for Johnny Cash to play on the same fucking record. It’s like being a fucking cheater, that’s what it is.

He wants to get out of that car. Or maybe he just wants to drive into that reservoir. Then he hears Bobby hanging up on the phone. So much for planning the future.

“How's your head?” happens to be the most immediate question.

“Well, I think the slammer's pretty much wore off. In between that and the 20 cups of coffee, I'm nicely tense and alarmed.” He sure as fuck is tense and alarmed as he’s never been alright.

“I wasn't talking about that,” Bobby makes it clear and the calm façade of Dean’s face cracks slightly.

“Oh, Bobby, don't,” Dean starts, shaking his head in discomfort, “don't go all Sigmund Freud on me right now, okay? I just got drugged by a sandwich,” he tries to cut, but to no avail.

“I want to talk about your new party line,” Bobby insists.

“Party? What are you talking about?” he snorts nervously. “I don't even vote.” And Dean isn’t sure he follows. He’s got a very vague idea though, but he sees it best to carry on pretending he doesn’t. He asks that question just to make sure he’s avoiding the right waters.

“The world's a suicide case. We save it, it just steals more pills?” Bobby paraphrases Dean’s yesterday monologue.

Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Boy, that was eternity ago. Whatever was bad before his joyride is older than dinosaurs right now. Now, everything tastes like dick. Oh wait, that’s the one thing he thankfully didn’t get to know. Maybe he should ask that charming chomper prince of his – he’s the one inclined to have the knowledge. Or then maybe not. He won’t be discussing any of this with anybody, especially not with his porn horror show co-star, wherever the blue flying fuck he is.

“Bobby, I'm here, okay? I'm on the case. What's the problem?” Dean deflects, impatient.

“I've seen a lot of hunters live and die. You're starting to talk like one of the dead ones, Dean,” Bobby flat out says, pissed and worried.

“No, I'm talking the way a person talks when they've had it,” Dean groans, “when they can't figure out why they used to think all this mattered,” he snarls.

“Oh, you poor, sorry...” Bobby starts and halts himself in time before he adds, “widow”. “You're not a person” he begins to correct himself.

“Thanks,” Dean cuts in bitterly and offers a mocking smile. But yeah, that’s right. He’s not a person. He’s one of the dead ones.

“Come on, now. You tried to hang it up and be a person with Lisa and Ben,” Bobby says and Dean huffs and swallows painfully in response, even more aggravated. He hardly even listens to whatever his old friend says next because he’s busy dwelling on the bitter memory that he tried to be a person with Cas, too, but it all had to end with wars, lies and blood because Cas, on his part, tried to be a person too hard and got to be a person in all the wrong places. Hell, he wasn’t better, too. But, God, they tried, they really did. And look where it got them both: dead.

 “And now here you are with a mean old coot and a van full of guns. That ain't person behavior, son. You're a hunter, meaning you're whatever the job you're doing today. Now, you get a case of the Anne Sextons, something's gonna come up behind you and rip your fool head off.” To this Dean reacts slightly too abruptly as for someone who pretends not to bother himself with giving a rat’s ass. Then again, how can he not. Bobby doesn’t know that there’s far too much recent truth to that metaphor. He already almost got his head ripped off and he felt glad and relieved like Sexton finally suffocating in her car while he was at it. “Now, you find your reasons to get back in the game. I don't care if it's love or spite or a ten-dollar bet. I've been to enough funerals. I mean it!” Bobby rants. Dean doesn’t have anything to say. There’s nothing reassuring he can say and not lie. “You die before me, and I'll kill you,” Bobby concludes.

Dean’s heart collapses even further and his lips tremble in pain before he gathers himself to speak. He can’t promise Bobby anything, not when it comes to his own life, not anymore. It hurts him to see his, well, his dad, in a way, hurting like this. But he can’t stop. His death is already an avalanche rolling from the distance, not a summer stroll in the park. Knowing this ain’t gonna stop before it stops him as well once and for all, he realizes that he’s got another thing he feels sorry for.

“We need to scrape some money together, get you a condo or something,” he manages to say in the end as the most peaceful suggestion to just drop it.

He tries to take another sip of his coffee. But the more aware he is with each hour, the more his coffees begin to smell of lake waters and dicks. And in his book, this is probably as bad as things can get after stupidly converting oneself to sluthood.

*

His book was wrong. His trauma rewrites it. One little bullet puts all of his priorities back into order. He and his brother are like two pups thrown tied-up into a river among the whiteness, the noises, the people and the merciless prognoses and machines. They’ve been through enough, all of them. But they just keep getting more. Sam tries to be reasonable about it, tries to soothe or prepare him for whatever’s about to come, but Dean won’t be having any of it. He still believes nothing, nothing ever could go that bad. He never wanted to avoid Bobby’s nightmare like this. And he can try to reverse the argument with you try to die before me and I’ll kill you all he wants, but it doesn’t do nothing. He walks out on Sam, he paces like a wave of rampant bitter water through the hospital corridors and avoids answers, questions, everything. Every now and then, behind a person, on a chair, in a corner, he catches a glimpse of him – unmoving, stern and somber. Neither of them speaks. Both already know this is the end of everything. Because they aren’t what they want  or not even what they need to be. They just are what they are. And the truth cuts it. Truth is unforgiving and it knows no exceptions. This is probably a truce formed by the tragedy, Dean thinks. And he’s convinced that soon they’re going to reenter the grounds of mutually assured destruction. And for all that’s worth, he’s gonna be the one performing the mercy killing. Mercy for this one and a bloody vendetta for all the other Leviathans. Pain of the waiting already gave him enough of ideas. Dick Roman’s snickering face gave his hand the strength to break away from the sentimental coma and kill. If there’s a reason to get his head back into the game, that’s it. And the game knows no exceptions, no special cases.

 

When Bobby dies, Dean forgets how to breathe. When Bobby dies, he forgets Sam is standing next to him. When Bobby dies, his nerves refuse to function. When Bobby dies, he storms out of the room without looking behind. When Dean’s dad dies, he strikes his fists at the hospital’s external walls until his knuckles are raw and numb, until he can’t tell the difference between the bleeding meat and the metal of his rings. He hits until he finally manages to erase his fucking hands through this unforgiving wall because he always, always breaks everything he touches and he wants it no more. He punches until the Leviathan takes his space and separates him from the wall, so he wants to hits him, instead. The sad-faced monster grabs his bloody fist midway to his stubbled jaw and counters with a an unexpected, heavy blow to Dean’s head after forcing him against the wall. That’s enough to take him out and the monster slowly rests him down on the concrete and for once he truly regrets that of all the things he can do because of his remarkable taint, sedating, healing or soothing with a soft, single touch is not one of them. He regrets many things. And he can’t even tell whether it is the angelic, dirty aching or is it entirely his own. One thing he knows – his kind has one way of delivering retribution for mistakes irreparably done. It is the only fully sufficient way of ensuring to never make them again. And who is he to trust his own hands? He knows Dean will deliver the punishment.

*

During the first week, Dean sits, absent for most of the time. So does Sam. And so does the Leviathan, albeit he always seems to be in the part of the cabin in which Dean currently isn’t. At nights, when Sam falls into mournful and exhaustion-caused sleep, Dean leaves the old house in Whitefish and he rides off to gradually purchase the means of what he considers it shall be the rest of his lifetime’s executions. Dean buys countless beers and far too many whiskeys and he drinks before he returns, but he also drinks when he drives back. Dean’s life has become two things: 45489 and vendetta.

On the second week Dean spends most of his waking hours trying to figure out the meaning of those digits. The hours in which Dean should sleep he spends on creating the only weapon of destruction that matters. It is the work of blood, sweat and tears: pipes upon pipes, upon garden hoses, upon heavy bottles, upon screws. He does not know how much time it takes. Days, hours, or maybe an entire week? There’s no use in caring and no use in knowing. Time is nonexistent and it stopped being a factor. The numbers remain as empty as his eyes had fallen, he focuses on his opus magnum of cleansing and retribution. The Leviathan pays him a visit from time to time. Dean pretends not to see him and he in exchange pretends not to see the awful work of Dean’s hands. They share the courtesy of silence. Upon exchanging subconscious  fleeting, broken looks, they part their ways. One of them takes the time to work, the other – to cope.

When all is ready, Dean drinks until it dulls him. When all is ready, Dean sends Sam to the furthest store with the longest list and Sam complies because it hurts him too much to take the pitiful sight anymore. When all is ready, Dean meets the Leviathan once more. And everything seems like it was the first time they met – he is standing there silent, staring at the window and Dean, just like then, is tense, broken and unsure.

“Hello, Dean,” he hears and does not miss the lingering note of nostalgia marking those words. “Are you done, Dean?” the question falls before he even finds any kind of excuse to get his grand plan going.

“So you know,” he manages to say breathlessly, but fails to make it into an actual question. He doesn’t know if the clarity of the situation makes it easier or worse.

“Would be difficult not to, given the circumstances,” comes the answer. “But it is not enough to work.”

“What,” Dean huffs, “you want the final virgin sacrifice before it happens?” hearing this, the monster finally turns around, crestfallen. “You know what? Fine, I don’t care. Let’s get this over with,” he says bitterly and starts to unbutton his shirt.

“Dean, no!” he cuts harshly and Dean halts. “You need to bring it here.”

“Bring what,” Dean sighs.

“You know what!” the Leviathan rages, but Dean’s empty eyes tell him he doesn’t exactly follow. “I need the relic from your little sanctuary, Dean.”

“What for?! So you can fucking burn it?!” Dean roars hoarsely and the monster rolls his eyes at those words.

“If you want him free and whole, give it back to me,” he explains. “Well, not for long,” he exhales tiredly, “but long enough to make it, if you hurry.”

“Why should I believe you?!” Dean asks. “How is that even supposed to work?!”

“And why do you think I hated and avoided the despicable thing the entire time?! The most of his grace that he left to save you is not in me, I’m barely scratched. It’s in the coat. If I rejoin with it, then for some time it should allow it to take over me. It’s like your salt and burn, Dean, you need to take care of the whole thing to put it to rest,” he sighs.

“You mean I get Cas?” Dean inquires.

“Yes.”

“Then what if I won’t hurry?” Dean spits and the Leviathan snorts bitterly at that.

“The grace is too weak and too shattered, Dean. It will burn out entirely within minutes,” the monster takes a pause. “Then I am free of my burden and I am free to kill you on the spot.”

“And will you?”

“You have to let go, Dean,” the Leviathan begs.

“Will you?!” Dean insists.

“Dean,” he tries with a broken voice, “you are going to kill me. It will be my first and only instinct to survive by then, whether I as of now, do like it or not,” he sighs heavily. “You know how it will play out.”

Dean stands there silent, jaw locked tight and palms formed into fists. He gives no answer. He’s not willing to let go.

“Dean, I’m only offering you a chance to save yourself. Take it.”

“And what if I don’t wanna be saved?!” Dean shouts bitterly.

“You think you don’t de –”

“You dare to say it,” Dean rages the loudest he has ever heard himself screaming, “and I’ll set this fucking house on fire, you hear me?!” he warns with wild eyes, breathing heavily.

“Dean, this will not buy you much additional time to have with him, anyway. Not enough to be worth dying this stupid” the chomper pleads, trying to calm Dean down.

“A minute?” Dean barely manages to ask through his sore throat. “Will it be a minute more?”

“Dean,” the monster moans in despair, but Dean remains silent. “Retrieve it and meet me there. I hope for your sake, he will be wiser than you,” he sighs with exasperation.

*

Shortly afterwards, when they meet again in the cabin’s narrow bathroom, Dean passes the dirty trench coat reluctantly and the Leviathan grabs it quickly, an expression of concern and disgust mixing up on his tired face. As he begins to unfold it, Dean proceeds to undress. Wearing only a wife beater and a pair of briefs, he enters the shower.

“Any last words or wishes?” he asks the monster right before he is about to carefully put his arm into the first sleeve. Upon hearing those words, the Leviathan joins Dean in the shower cabin and, still clutching the trench coat, he gets as close as he physically can.

“I have already taken enough from you and I will ask no more,” he says softly. “Is there anything else you perhaps need to know, Dean?”

Dean lets out a small chuckle and hangs his head down for a moment, as if in some inexplicable shame.

“Your name,” he murmurs unsurely. “I never asked you for your name,” he admits.

The Leviathan offers him a kind, albeit pained smile in return and sighs before speaking.

“I already told you once,” he says with nostalgia. He raises his spare hand in urge to run it softly against Dean’s cheek, but he stops himself. “You are my name, you twisted, inconceivable soul. I have never dared to become anything above you, Dean.”

“Why?”

“Is that all, Dean?” the Leviathan dismisses the subject.

“Why?” Dean insists.

“I chose not to,” the monster sighs, but the tone of his voice bears a note of finality. And Dean respects it this time. “Is it all, Dean?”

“Okay, this is gonna be stupid, but –” Dean starts.

“That’s nothing new in your case, Dean,” the monster laughs. “But?” he encourages.

“But I figured you’d know. What…what does dick taste like?” he spits finally, face red.

“You’re asking for future reference, or…?” the Leviathan inquires dumbfounded and Dean shrugs. He’s not even sure why that was such a bother, anymore. “Well, Dean,” the chomper chuckles, “yours is like almost everything.”

“Almost everything how?” Dean asks.

“Almost everything I needed,” comes the reply and Dean nods. Now it is the Leviathan’s turn to shrug awkwardly. “I think it would be best to bid our farewells,” he smiles again. “So farewell, Dean” he says and throws the coat on so swiftly he doesn’t leave Dean a single moment to say anything in return. Dean’s body tenses again as he closes his eyes and awaits an indescribable change to come.

*

He can feel a subtle touch on his arm. He still doesn’t dare to open his eyes.

“Dean,” comes the unmistakable voice. “Unscrew the valve, we me must hurry.”

“Cas,” Dean whispers. “Cas, please. Wait with me” he says and with great fear dares to open his eyes once again. And he finally sees him. The real him with the  light, solemn eyes, flawlessly sad line of his lips. He missed this. He can’t look away. His palms itch to reach out and feel if it’s true, but all his hands do is tremble.

Cas touches him first, maybe he’s more yearning, maybe less afraid. Maybe in too much hurry to wait. After all there’s the Leviathan burning through his insides.

“This,’” he begins with awe as he slowly runs his fingers across Dean’s face, “this is just like you were,” he says with so much pain his gravel voice shatters and his blue eyes moisten up with tears. ‘”You’re beautiful,’” he sighs, shaking his head, disbelieving the miracle of this simple sight. That’s all he’s allowed to say, to have.

“Don’t, Cas…” Dean says weakly. “Just come here,” he asks and dares to pull him closer. Close enough that their bodies come into soft, warm contact. “I feel like we haven’t talked in ages, Cas,” he murmurs brokenly as he takes Cas’s spare hand into his and unknowingly begins to run his fingers across  his skin.

“I know this feeling, Dean,” he admits straight into Dean’s star-lit eyes.

“Cas, there’s something I gotta tell you, okay,” Dean begins and swallows hard, forcing the courage to let the lingering words unravel. “Just hear me out,” he asks and Cas’s expression becomes even more sunken. Dean fears that whatever he is about to say, Cas cannot help and cannot give. The monster inside of him is a rampant fire, tearing apart his strength and light. Whatever Dean wants to have, he will not have for long.

“Dean,” Cas whispers. And he doesn’t even know if he is yet begging him to stop or apologizing for the pain already.

“Shh, Cas, no,” Dean says. “Just lemme say it” he insists and the Angel lets out a pained breath, his face contorting into a grimace of anguish in the process. He lowers his head because he doesn’t want Dean to see, but Dean sees anyway.

“I’ve thought about this a lot, since you been gone,” he starts unsurely. “I really…sat with this…”

“Dean…” Cas begs.

“No, Cas, you don’t know!” Dean groans in despair. “I love you, Cas,” he throws out with so much pain he sounds like he’s ashamed of what he just said. He’s not sure if he is or he isn’t. He awaits an answer. “Will you say damn anything?!” he complains, choking on his breath and his words after a moment of silence.

“Dean,” Cas finally whispers with anguish in his voice as he begins to caress Dean’s cheek with his thumb and feels Dean hopelessly clench his fist on the sleeve in return. “I wish I could get one more chance to meet with you like this just to hold you and take your pain away,” he tries to soothe. “I wish I could be an answer to your need. But you must understand that you have to let go.”

“What do you mean?!” Dean lashes out. “What is wrong with me this time that I can be never enough?! You still think I’m too weak so you’re gonna turn around and ditch me like the last time?!”

“Dean, I never thought you were weak. All I ever did was to protect you from the harm that was no need for you to have. But after all of this time, I know I caused you even more. For that I never stopped being sorry,” he says with remorse. “When we fought, Dean – it was my biggest regret that I lead to it. Had I known it would end like it ended, I’d tell you anything,” he goes on, weakly, “anything you wanted to hear…” he whispers at the edge of his breath.

“Then say it now,” Dean groans, upset. “No excuses, Cas. Just let me know.”

“Dean, I can’t give you what you need, don’t you understand? Whatever I may offer, won’t last! However I’d like to get close to you, I’d only break you more if I touched. Please, don’t ask me for it. You have to carry on, I beg you.”

“What kind of excuse is that?! You don’t have the right,” Dean roars, voice hoarse and aggravated, “to decide if you can break me more or not! There’s nothing left to break! Go ahead and fucking try me! Everything’s long broken!”

“That’s exactly why you need to unscrew the valve, Dean!” Cas counters. “You sanctify the wound you need to let be healed!” he cries out. “You have to accept my death, please…” he begs again.

Dean shakes his head. He’s having none of it. Not now, not ever.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas sighs as he unexpectedly pins Dean to the shower wall with his weight and jerks his hand away to take care of the valve himself. “Close your eyes,” he demands “and don’t open until there’s silence.”

When Dean understands what is about to happen, he begins to writhe frantically and starts to cry out hoarse mantras of “no” without even knowing, but he’s too weak to throw the Angel off, so he does the only thing he’s got left to do – he pulls him in and forces a heavy kiss on his mouth. Cas loses himself in the sudden contact for a moment, but manages to undo the turncock anyway.

Heavy rain of borax comes into fiery contact with his skin. Cas is relieved and welcomes the pain as if it were a long awaited rest in the form of the well deserved punishment. But Dean, hearing the chemicals downpour, proceeds to wrestle even more furiously. He tries to reach the valve, but Cas’s grip is too tight.

“Cas, no,” he begs over and over as he struggles, but he can’t even look at him anymore because everything got completely dark under the soft curtain of Cas’s firmly pressed palm. “Cas, if you say you’re sorry!” Dean tries hoarsely. “How is it okay to leave me with this pain?! I can hear your fucking skin hissing and boiling because of what I’ve fucking made! How are you going to let me live with that haunting me till the rest of my days?!” Dean shouts and takes manipulation as his last resort.

“I’m not,” comes the pain-strained answer, immediately followed by an unexpected kiss, tearing Dean’s lips apart and conjoining them with Cas’s mouth. Dean feels dizzied by the sudden sensation, he can feel warmth that is almost burning and he tells the same warmth is coming from Cas’s palms as well. Right away he knows that it’s not just the kiss, it’s some fucking angel mojo going on there and soon he begins to feel thin threads of his consciousness being ripped out of him. He can also smell the nauseating odor of burnt flesh and alcohol and he’s almost sure Cas’s mouth and his grasp are getting weaker with every moment, which is worse.

“How much are you taking away, Cas?” he whispers hopelessly, breathlessly against those dearest, too hot lips and he feels tears mixing with the rain of borax.

“Everything that you’ve brought,” after a moment is the weak, shaky reply, “from that water,” he whispers. “I --I’d take everything, but I’m too weak,” Cas cries.

“Everything?” Dean nearly wails, shattered. He doesn’t want to forget everything. He wants to remember Cas, he can’t have Cas go all “Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind” on him, he wants –

“Yes, Dean. You’re everything,” Cas coos absentmindedly, because it’s the last thing he remembers knowing and living for.

And then the warmth Dean feels turns into burning and the sound of the shower is muffled by the noise he recalls being the true angelic calling, something gets abruptly ripped out of his mind – that’s all he registers before everything in his head bursts blind in an explosion of pure  light, then complete darkness. Everything gets black.

*

Dean wakes up under the shower. He’s in some of his clothes, which is odd, but he remembers drinking, so he figures that has something to do with it, maybe. Next thing he notices is that he’s not only almost naked, but he’s clutching to Cas’s dirty coat for dear life. Still somewhat inebriated, he decides that yeah, if he fucking took that coat out of the car and brought him here to cuddle with it in fetal position – he had  to be drinking a fuck load last night. He’s been thinking about it for what – months now? He guesses he finally got drunk enough to do it and go with it all Mena Suvari plus roses. And perhaps it’s the most pathetic way to say I love you in the history of ever, Dean thinks, but now that he caught himself red handed and sober enough to be aware of it – he can’t pretend in front of himself that he didn’t do this. Thank fuck he still can around others. He sighs heavily in shame, but he doesn’t let go of the coat. He closes his eyes and, since there’s no one around to see it, he inhales and attempts to recall the distinct scent of Cas and his coat. He gets it back from the depths of his worn out mind and regretfully wishes he could keep it always with him, not just leave it in a damn trunk, always far away, out of reach, as if it’s something to be ashamed of. A drop of some kind of liquid falls heavy onto his forehead. Sharp, chemical smell. He realizes he has it all over himself, too. He can feel it on his mouth, on his chest, on his hands, and somehow – even in his fucking blood. Two names strike back into his head and with them, comes one mission: revenge.

So here it is, Dean decides bitterly. He’s going on a hunting trip and he won’t be home until the world floods itself pure with borax by the work of his hands, won’t be home until every single black-blooded bitch pays for crossing the threshold of this lands, for raising their claws at the ones he’d loved and lost, he won’t be home until there’s nothing left of him but the body count, won’t be home until he’s done.

He just won’t be home.

There is no home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from:  
> Simon & Garfunkel - The sound of silence


End file.
